He bared his teeth.
The growl deepened, vibrating through the quiet room in a way that made conversations falter and heads turn. Someone coughed awkwardly. Someone else whispered that the dog was just stressed.
Then Koda lunged.
Not fully—he didn’t bite—but the motion was sharp enough, fast enough, that the handler jerked his hand back instinctively. Two nearby sailors stepped forward, unsure whether to intervene or retreat, and for a moment, the entire room seemed to tilt on the edge of something unpredictable.
This wasn’t normal.
This wasn’t a dog reacting to grief.
This was a dog refusing something.
At the back of the room, Lena Caldwell sat perfectly still.
She wore black, simple and unadorned, her posture straight in a way that read, to most people, as composure. Her daughter, six-year-old Sophie, leaned against her side, small fingers curled into the fabric of her dress as though anchoring herself to something that might otherwise drift away.
Lena hadn’t cried. Not publicly, at least.
