“She pulled a World War II practice bomb fuse out of the public dune so beach patrol could reopen the access road at ten thirty this morning.”

Kenneth reached into his canvas cargo pocket and took out a heavy metal canister holding the disarmed firing pin from that morning’s call.

He set the canister right on top of Wyler’s clipboard, directly over the pencil notes Wyler had scribbled beside Matty’s name.

Valerie Thorne held her silver ballpoint pen tight between both thumbs, looking from the official base dispatch log to Wyler’s red rejection stamp on Form 2841 and back.

“The boy wrote SEAL on his Career Day worksheet because his mother spent three years attached to a Naval Special Warfare unit,” Vance said, his slow, deliberate words echoing off the concrete walls of the gym.