Trouble was, he was a starving artist, making only just enough to feed and clothe himself.
* * * *
FLAGSTAFFREED DROVE TO THE AIRPORT, his grand-daughter in the front seat with him. They had just come from an early McDonald’s lunch of hamburgers, fries, and shakes. They stopped behind the air freight hangar.
“Grandpa?” she asked, before they got out of the car.
“Yes, Katie, what is it?”
“How many Germans did you kill during the war?”
Reed was caught off-guard. His grand-daughter had never asked him anything so blunt about his fighter pilot days. She was growing up. “It’s hard to say. Why would you ask?”
She shrugged. “Just... wondering.”
“Kids asking you at school?”
“Yeah.”
“It was war time, Katie. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t like. As a pilot I had the advantage of
