“He smells,” the man interrupted. “Put him in the hold where he belongs.”
The dog lifted his head. One eye blue, one brown. He didn’t growl. He whimpered softly—like grief scraping metal.
“He can’t go in the hold,” the Corporal whispered. “He panics in the dark.”
“Not my problem,” the man said.
That’s when I noticed confirming detail: the tactical collar. A serial number, not a name.
“Who is he?” I asked her.
“This is Skeeter,” she said, voice shaking. “Retired EOD. He belonged to Staff Sergeant Caleb Vance.”
She swallowed hard.
“Caleb is in the cargo hold. Skeeter stayed on top of him for six hours after the blast. He won’t leave him. This is his last mission—bringing him home.”
The cabin fell silent.
The man in 2A sat down slowly. He folded his laptop shut. Reached into the overhead bin, pulled out his expensive jacket, and draped it over the trembling dog.
