A chill hung heavy over the soldier-no-more. Northwestern air had been absent from his lungs for what seemed like years. A refreshing sweetness sucked in and held down. The stoic transformed, stone face gazing upon a sea of concrete and glass, metal and plastic, as far as the eye perceives. No welcome this time around. A new car pulls up; old man steps out. The statue affixes himself to a fresh leather seat. The car departs the terminal. The dead, the walking grave, had arrived.