Davis pressed the receiver so hard against his ear that the black plastic creaked under his damp fingers.
For three rings, nothing happened except the kitchen noise growing louder behind him, steam hissing like something impatient.
Then a voice answered, low, rough, and awake in a way that made Davis straighten without thinking.
“Master Chief Thorne’s office.”
Davis swallowed, suddenly aware of how young he sounded, how thin his courage felt inside his chest.
“Seaman Apprentice Davis, mess hall kitchen, sir. There’s a situation out here with an elderly visitor.”
There was no immediate reply, only the faint scrape of a chair and the soft click of a pen being set down.
“What kind of situation?”
Davis looked through the small service window toward the dining room, where Miller’s hand still hovered near George’s shoulder.
“A SEAL is harassing him, Master Chief. Publicly. Demanding ID, mocking something on his lapel.”
Another pause came, but this one felt different, heavier, as if the words had landed somewhere important.
“What lapel pin?”
Davis squinted, trying to remember the worn shape, the wings, the shield, the quiet dignity of it.
“Old wings, sir. Small shield in the middle. Tarnished. I don’t know the exact insignia.”
The line went so silent Davis thought the call had dropped, until Thorne spoke again, slower now.
“Describe the man.”
“Elderly. Tweed jacket. White shirt. Eating alone. Name might be Stanton, sir, from the visitor log.”
