“I’ll clean it up,” he said, his voice even.
“You sure you should be doing this job?” Neal added, leaning slightly over the counter. “I mean… no offense, but this place isn’t exactly retirement-friendly.”
More laughter.
Earl wiped at the spreading milk with a cloth, his movements steady, unhurried.
Carter chimed in, grinning. “Bet he never even served. Probably been in kitchens his whole life.”
That was the line that lingered.
Not because it was particularly sharp, but because it landed in a space that had been quiet for a long time.
Earl’s hand paused, just for a fraction of a second.
Somewhere far behind the noise of the mess hall, something else stirred. Not a clear memory at first—just fragments. The low thrum of rotor blades. The dry taste of dust in the back of his throat. A voice over a radio, distorted but urgent. Heat pressing in from all sides.
He blinked once, and the mess hall came back into focus.
