Bill, severely wounded in Afghanistan, limped from shrapnel lodged in his left leg. Suffering from PTSD, unable to find a job, he welcomed the forgiving obscurity provided by alcohol.

The preacher got him into AA and found him a job as the caretaker of an old cemetery. He lived in the caretaker’s cabin. He cut the grass in summer and raked the leaves in the fall. His only companion was a little black cat with a splotch of white fur on her chest. He named her Josephine.

Bill whistled as he began to rake up the leaves covering the graves. He stopped to brush

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