A trident, stylized. The numbers 77 beneath it.

He stopped speaking mid-word. The grill hissed. Somebody’s ice melted. He looked from my forearm to my face and back as if triangulating truth with the tools at hand.

“Unit Seventy-Seven,” he said softly. Not a question.

I didn’t flinch. “That’s right.”

The backyard didn’t so much go quiet as forget how to make noise. My father’s beer found a table without his help. His mouth opened.

“What’s Unit Seventy-Seven?” he asked.