![]() No one here fucking knows Zimmer, I thought. I never had.Īs I moved with the hundreds of other vehicles, I was angry to be among the anonymous mass passing his name. Guys typed things like “RIP Nick” and “Miss you brother.” I always told myself I’d go see the sign. ![]() A guy from our basic-training platoon, now a truck driver, had stopped on this freeway years back and taken a selfie with the sign. I thought about merging into the right lane to pull over. Fifteen years earlier, when he’d been killed by a rocket-propelled grenade near Kufa, Iraq, I was on a base four hours north, staring at dark hills and crooked coils of concertina wire during a quiet 12–4 a.m. I could hardly make out the words on the sign, and then it disappeared behind semis, but I knew what they said: Army Specialist Nicholaus E. ![]() I’d been holding my phone, listening to directions, and I dropped it. The brown aluminum placard flashed between passing cars. S outh of downtown Columbus, Ohio, lost on the way to a tailgate, I saw the road sign bearing his name. ![]()
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