He had been working there for three years, long enough that most Marines recognized him in the vague way people recognize furniture—always there, rarely considered. They called him “Old Man Earl” sometimes, not always unkindly, but never with curiosity. Nobody asked him where he came from. Nobody asked him what he used to do. And that suited him just fine.
Routine had a way of sanding down the sharp edges of memory. That was the point.
“Keep it moving,” Staff Sergeant Dunlap barked somewhere down the line, more out of habit than necessity.
The line shuffled forward.
Lance Corporal Tyler Briggs stepped up next, his tray already tilted slightly in anticipation, his grin loose and careless in the way of someone who hadn’t yet learned how quickly things could change. Behind him, two of his friends—Carter and Neal—were still laughing about something that had started outside and carried in with them.
Earl glanced up briefly, just enough to make eye contact before returning to the tray.
“Chicken or beef?” he asked.
“Chicken,” Briggs said, barely looking at him.
