“I have buildings full of MBAs who almost poisoned a hospital full of military dependents today,” he said flatly.

“You rescued a child, performed combat triage, preserved evidence, outmaneuvered a corporate trap, and stopped a disaster while wearing half a shoe and bleeding onto my mahogany table. I don’t care about your degree. I care about your spine.”

I touched the edge of the paper, thinking of Milo. Of the surgeries we could finally afford.

“I have conditions,” I said.

He actually smiled — a real, genuine smile. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“I want a whistleblower protection program implemented company-wide, completely bypassing HR. I want the line supervisor who was fired before me reinstated with back pay. And I want an ironclad guarantee that my brother’s medical schedule takes priority over any late-night board meeting.”