“What else could I do?” Three Marines sitting around Isaac nod as a server refills their coffee. “You didn’t have a choice?” I ask. Isaac laughs. “Well, there’s always choice. I had three choices then: mess my pants, run away or be a Marine.” I laugh and then ask him, “What did you say to yourself as you ran toward the explosion?” Isaac was on foot patrol when one of his platoon’s vehicles hit an improvised explosive device.
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