This time he looked him directly in the eye.
“Morning, Saul.”
“Morning, Captain.”
Miller hesitated.
“Wind’s supposed to pick up this afternoon.”
Saul raised one eyebrow.
“Where?”
Miller almost smiled.
“That, apparently, is the important question.”
Saul slid a plate toward him.
Behind Miller, the three shooters were waiting in line.
None of them smirked.
One quietly thanked Saul for breakfast.
Another asked whether he had time later to look at some range observations with them.
Saul shrugged.
“After lunch.”
No ceremony followed.
No medal appeared.
The erased unit remained erased, and Saul never offered stories about the missions behind the scars on his arms.
He went back to cooking.
But the base never looked at him the same way again.
And that suited Saul just fine.
For decades, men had mistaken silence for emptiness, age for weakness, and an apron for the whole story of the person wearing it.
Saul had never needed to correct them.
Not until their mistake began sending bullets into the wrong piece of sky.
