The medical tent smelled of antiseptic, sweat, and instant coffee. The line moved slowly. Every Marine passed through triage: dehydration check, infection check, concussion assessment. No exceptions. Tyler cracked jokes to anyone who would listen, teasing, laughing, making light of the fatigue that weighed on every man like a physical force. Morale mattered, and he had made it his job to keep it high.
Near the far end of the tent, he noticed a man who didn’t belong. Civilian clothes. Faded jeans. A worn leather jacket. Boots that had clearly walked miles. And beside him, a little girl clutching his hand like it was the only lifeline in a foreign world of khaki and camouflage.
Tyler’s grin widened. He saw opportunity.
“Hey!” he called, voice bouncing across the tent. “What’s your rank, sir?”
The man glanced at him. Calm. Still. Almost unnervingly quiet.
Tyler tilted his head, smirk in place. “Private Dad?”
Laughter erupted. Marines slapped Tyler on the back, whistled, laughed until their sides hurt. Tyler leaned back, basking in the approval.
