She plodded across the carefully-maintained grass to where he was standing lost in thought by a restored field piece; when she was close enough, she asked, "Were you here?"
"Sure," he said, nodding, then pointed and continued, "I took a bullet to the thigh about a thousand yards that way. Those big, slow-moving bullets, they tumbled through the air, they tumbled through your flesh when they hit you."
Every ten years or so — sometimes twenty — they'd reconnect like this, and he always wanted to talk about the past, about ages ago, lifetimes. "Is that all you remember, just the pain?"