Polite laughter. The kind people learn in rooms where discomfort isn’t allowed.

Men turned to look. One of them wore a faded Recon T-shirt, belly soft over a belt that once held knives. Another had the tan lines of someone who still ran at sunrise because sometimes the body remembers you before the mind does. And one—thirty-something, clean posture, eyes like someone who counts exits in restaurants—had the bearing you can’t buy with CrossFit. Commander, or I’d swallow my sword.

My father met me halfway across the yard. One-armed hug. Breath that smelled like onions and resilience.