The swastikas on his knuckles kept stealing my attention. I tried not to stare but every time he gestured to emphasize his words my gaze snapped back there. That awful symbol, multiplied across all 10 digits, refused to be ignored. The blue lines were blurred and misshapen, probably jail tats. I grew up in a prison town and then joined the navy. You would think the inking of flesh could no longer…