If you’ve never watched a dying Marine sit taller because he refuses to eat like an invalid, I hope you never do. By Sunday morning, Victor’s skin looked like paper. But when I brought him soup, he forced himself upright in his recliner. Spine off the backrest. Jaw set. The kind of quiet dignity that doesn’t ask for permission. “Easy, Marine,” I said, setting the bowl down. “You’ve earned sitting however you want.” He gave me a look that said the rules still applied—at least in his house. He too

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