She knew, for example, that he had gone to Vietnam, where one night in April 1971 he went to bed in an Army tent and woke up several weeks later in the Walter Reed military hospital in Washington, D.C.

“Those tents,” Miller says, a subtle grin hinting that he’s about to crack another joke, “are supposed to keep you dry. But bullets and rockets and shells pass through them fairly easily.”

Chafin also knew that Miller, as a disabled veteran, was now living at the Town Village senior-living center in south Tulsa, where every once in a while she called the staff to ask if he needed anything. But she never asked to speak to him.

Miller had lost his sight in one eye and lost his hearing in one ear. And surgeons had to replace a sizable chunk of his skull, where a receding hairline has left the scars in clear view. But his injuries had not left Miller as disabled as Chafin seemed to think.

Constantly going for laughs, Miller can sometimes seem distracted and might stray a little off topic in the middle of a conversation.

“Other than that,” the Town Village staff member assured Chafin, “he’s fine. You should talk to him.”