Williams steps out of the car, straightens his Scooby-Doo tie. He thinks he should be dressed well in public.
He looks at the towering oak in the front yard.
"I planted that in September of '65," Williams says. "It was only 6 feet tall then." Now, it stands at least 50 feet.
Williams likes to talk about the things he was able to accomplish in his early life. He boasts that he put up all the antennas in this neighborhood. He points to the living room of the split-level house. "I got married there, in front of the fireplace," he says.
A neighbor, curious about strangers parked outside, walks up to Williams. "May I help you?"
"Oh, we're just looking," he says. "I used to live in that house. I joined the military from there. I'm a Vietnam-era veteran."
It feels good for Williams to say that aloud. He lives burdened by guilt that he never shipped out for a combat tour with the rest of the guys; that he got to live when others died. Vietnam, he says, "That's unfinished business."
He borrows from Shakespeare. "A coward dies a thousand deaths; a brave man but once. When you are told you are a coward, you die those thousand deaths."
It's about to rain. Williams' wispy white hair flutters in the breeze. Tears stream down his gaunt face.
He doesn't know whether the assistant drill sergeant who raped him is alive still. He'd like to show him X-rays of his broken body. He'd like to tell him the horror within that will never die.
Outside his old house, he says goodbye to the curious stranger and begins to fold up his walker to put in the back seat. Things, Williams tells the man, aren't always what they appear to be.
As a symbol of his troubles, he wears an orange wristband on his left arm with the number of a veterans' crisis line. Next to it is another band with the name of the film he is in: "Justice Denied." He makes sure the two always overlap.