Earl nodded and reached for the serving spoon. The motion was practiced, almost automatic—but halfway through, something slipped. It was small, almost nothing. A shift in grip, a slight tremor that didn’t quite correct in time.
The tray tilted.
The spoon clipped the edge.
And suddenly, the entire thing went wrong.
The plate slid, hit the metal counter with a sharp clang, and flipped, sending chicken, potatoes, and gravy across the floor in a messy, spreading arc. A carton of milk toppled over and burst, the liquid spreading quickly across the tile and soaking into Earl’s worn boots.
For half a second, the mess hall froze.
Then the laughter hit.
It came from Briggs first, a short, surprised bark that quickly turned into something louder as Carter and Neal joined in, their voices echoing across nearby tables. A few others picked it up, not because it was particularly funny, but because moments like that had a way of inviting noise.
“Damn, man,” Briggs said, shaking his head. “You trying to start a food fight or what?”
Earl didn’t respond right away. He bent down carefully, his knees stiff but controlled, and reached for the fallen tray.
