They gathered in skinny packs, in laughing circles around him.
He stitched their cuts, bound their wounds,
gave them, like some OD Santa,
chocolate bars, antibiotics, aspirins and C-Rations.
They laughed louder, begging for more, shrieking and calling him Doc-san #1.
This phony comedy made him feel better, feel human, even though he knew at night their parents would do their best to take his life.
Decades on, he knows behind those grins they must have hated him: his height, his food, his round eyes and the doom he had brought their world that no trinkets could ever allay.
Now, there is nothing to do but remember and be sorry.