The knuckles of his enormous hands were swollen and locked.

His breath caught now and then, the sheer physical cost of holding one position for so long grinding down a body that had already, from the look of him, spent a lifetime being ground down.

I brought over a warm, damp cloth. I didn’t ask; I just leaned in and gently wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, and then the back of his neck.

He didn’t open his eyes, but for a fraction of a second he leaned into the touch, the way an exhausted animal leans into the first kindness it has felt in a long time, and then caught himself, and went still again.

As I drew my hand back, my eyes fell on the dog tag, resting on his chest just above where the baby’s tiny head was tucked.

And in the soft light I could finally read the single word cut into the metal.