The cafeteria at Crestview High wasn’t just a place to eat. It was a kill box.

If you know anything about military strategy—and I do, unwillingly, by osmosis, thanks to a father who reads The Art of War for fun—you know a kill box is a three-dimensional area used to facilitate the integration of joint fires. In high school terms: it’s where the popular kids target the weak, and there is nowhere to hide because the exits are blocked by social anxiety and lunch ladies.

I was the target.

I checked my watch. 12:05 PM. I had exactly twenty-five minutes to survive before fifth period.

“Just keep your head down, Sophie,” I whispered to myself, clutching the straps of my backpack like they were parachute cords.

I adjusted the bag, which felt like it weighed fifty pounds, and stepped into the noise. The roar of three hundred teenagers shouting, laughing, and slamming trays hit me like a physical wave. It smelled of industrial cleaning agents and Taco Tuesday—a distinct mix of faux-Mexican spices, floor wax, and teenage body spray.

I was small for my age. Petite, my dad called it. “Tactically compact.” At fifteen, I barely cleared five feet. With my pale skin and unruly blonde hair that refused to be tamed by any amount of product, I looked like a stiff breeze could blow me over.

I wasn’t from here. We had just moved to Virginia three weeks ago. My dad’s reassignment to the Pentagon was supposed to be his “sunset tour,” a desk job after decades of commanding troops in deserts and jungles. He promised we’d finally have a home base. A real zip code.

But for me, being the new kid in the middle of the semester was a death sentence. I was fresh meat in a shark tank.

I grabbed a red plastic tray that was still wet from the dishwasher. I moved through the line, mechanical. An apple. A carton of chocolate milk. The “Taco Surprise,” which looked more like sloppy joe mix on a tortilla than anything resembling Mexican cuisine.

I paid the lunch lady, who didn’t even look up from her register, and turned toward the sea of tables.

My objective was simple: The corner table near the janitor’s closet. It was drafty, it smelled like wet mops, but it was usually empty. It was neutral territory.

I navigated the aisles. I kept my eyes on my shoes—worn-out Converse that had seen better days and three different states.

Left flank clear. Right flank… hostile.

“Well, look who it is.”

The voice came from above. I froze.

Blocking the aisle was Brad Harrison. He was everything a high school movie villain was supposed to be: tall, wearing a letterman jacket that cost more than my entire wardrobe, with a smile that didn’t reach his predatory eyes.

He was flanked by his lieutenants—two other guys on the football team, Mark and Jason. They were laughing at something on Mark’s phone, but they stopped when Brad blocked my path.

“Excuse me,” I mumbled, trying to step around him to the left.

Brad side-stepped to the left.

I tried to go right. He mirrored me.

“Where you going, little mouse?” Brad sneered. “The trash cans are over there.”

“Please,” I said, my voice barely a squeak. “I just want to sit down.”

“I don’t think you fit in here,” Brad said, leaning down. He smelled of expensive cologne and arrogance. “This is for people who actually matter.”

I gripped my tray so hard my knuckles turned white. My dad had taught me self-defense. He’d taught me how to break a wrist lock, how to escape a chokehold. But he hadn’t taught me how to stop my hands from shaking when three guys twice my size were looking at me like I was a bug under a magnifying glass.

“Let me pass,” I said, trying to channel even an ounce of my father’s authority.

“Or what?” Brad laughed. “You gonna cry? You gonna run to mommy?”

“My mom’s dead,” I whispered.

It just slipped out. I hadn’t meant to say it. It was a raw nerve he had accidentally stepped on.

Brad’s smile faltered for a microsecond, but then his cruelty doubled down to cover the awkwardness.

“Boo-hoo,” he mocked. “Tragic backstory. Boring.”

He looked at his friends. “Film this. I bet she bounces.”

Mark already had his phone out. The little red recording dot was on.

“Don’t,” I said, panic rising in my throat.

Brad reached out. He didn’t punch me. He didn’t shove me.

He simply put his hand under the edge of my tray.

“Oops,” he whispered.

He flipped it.

The Four-Star Silence

Time seemed to slow down. I watched the taco meat, the salsa, the corn, and the open carton of chocolate milk launch into the air in a graceful arc.

Gravity took over.

The mess didn’t hit the floor. It hit me.

I gasped as the cold milk splashed against my neck and the warm, greasy meat slid down my hair. The tray clattered loudly to the floor, echoing like a gunshot in the cavernous room.

The entire cafeteria went silent for a heartbeat.

Then, the laughter started. It started with Brad, loud and barking, and it spread like an infection.

I dropped to my knees. Not because I wanted to, but because my legs gave out. I huddled on the dirty floor, surrounded by spilled food, covered in filth.

“Clean up on Aisle Loser!” Brad shouted, playing to the crowd.

I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could dissolve into the linoleum.

Shame is a temperature. It’s hot. Searing hot. I felt it burning my cheeks, my ears, the back of my neck.

I sat there, a small, salsa-covered heap on the floor. I could feel the grease seeping through my white cable-knit sweater—my favorite sweater. The one my grandma had sent me for my birthday.

“Yo, get a close up on the hair!” Jason shouted.

“She looks like a swamp monster!” Mark laughed, shoving his phone camera inches from my face.

The flashlights from the phones were blinding. I looked up through the strands of sauce-coated hair and saw a wall of lenses. It wasn’t just them. Other kids at nearby tables were standing up, recording. I was content. I was the daily entertainment.

“Look at her,” Brad jeered, kicking the empty milk carton at me. It bounced off my shoulder. “Pathetic. Do you even speak? Say something, mute.”

I couldn’t. My throat was closed shut. Tears mixed with the mess on my face.

Don’t let them see you cry. A Sterling doesn’t break.

My dad’s voice echoed in my head, but it felt a million miles away. I was breaking. I was shattered.

I prepared myself to run. I just needed to get my legs to work. I needed to get to the bathroom, wash this off, and then call my dad to pick me up. I’d never come back. I’d run away.

But then, the atmosphere in the room changed.

It wasn’t a gradual shift. It was instantaneous.

WHAM.

The double doors at the main entrance of the cafeteria didn’t just open; they were thrown wide with a force that rattled the hinges.

The sound cut through the laughter like a knife.

Heads turned. The recording phones wavered.

At first, I didn’t look. I was too busy trying to wipe beef off my eyelashes.

But then I heard the sound.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps. Hard-soled shoes on tile.

And silence. A heavy, suffocating silence that rolled across the room like a fog. The laughter died. The chatter stopped. Even the kitchen staff stopped serving.

I lifted my head.

Standing in the doorway was a silhouette that blocked out the hallway light.

He was tall. Six-foot-three. Broad-shouldered.

He wasn’t wearing civilian clothes. He wasn’t in the “dad uniform” of jeans and a polo.

He was in his Service Alphas. The dark green uniform was tailored to perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. The creases in his trousers were sharp enough to cut glass. His black shoes shone like obsidian mirrors.

But it was the glare of the overhead lights on his shoulder boards that caught every eye in the room.

Four silver stars.

A full General.

Behind him were two MPs (Military Police) in uniform, and the school Principal, Mr. Henderson. Mr. Henderson looked pale, sweating profusely, looking like he was about to faint.

My dad, General Vance Sterling, didn’t look at the Principal. He didn’t look at the crowd.

He scanned the room. It took him two seconds.

Target acquired.

His eyes locked onto me. Then, they shifted to Brad.

I have seen my father angry. I have seen him frustrated. But I had never seen the look he had on his face right now. It was a coldness that was terrifying. It was the face of a man who commanded armies, a man who sent tanks into battle, looking at a teenage boy who had just assaulted his daughter.

He began to walk.

He didn’t rush. He marched.

The sea of students parted. Kids scrambled over benches to get out of his way. The silence was so absolute you could hear the hum of the vending machines.

Brad turned around, confused by the sudden quiet. “What’s everyone looking a—”

He froze.

My dad stopped three feet away from us. He looked like a monolith.

He ignored Brad completely. He knelt down on one knee—right into the puddle of spilled milk and salsa. He didn’t care about his pristine uniform.

“Sophie,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was rock solid.

“Dad,” I choked out, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said gently.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pristine white handkerchief. He began to wipe my face. He wiped the salsa from my forehead. He cleaned my hands.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No,” I whispered. “Just… dirty.”

“Dirt washes off,” he said. “Dignity remains.”

He stood up, offering me his hand. His grip was iron. He pulled me up effortlessly, steadying me when I wobbled.

He kept his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side. I buried my face in his uniform, smelling the starch and the brass polish, feeling safe for the first time in hours.

Then, slowly, General Vance Sterling turned his attention to Brad.

Brad was holding his phone, his hand trembling.

My dad stepped forward. The medals on his chest jingled softly—the only sound in the room.

“Is there a problem here, son?” my dad asked.

His tone was conversational, polite even. Which made it a thousand times scarier.

“I… uh…” Brad stammered. He looked at his friends for backup, but Mark and Jason had vanished into the crowd. He was alone.

“I asked you a question,” my dad said, his voice dropping an octave. “Is. There. A. Problem?”

Brad swallowed hard. “No… no sir. We were just… it was a joke. It was just a prank.”

“A prank,” my dad repeated. He tasted the word like it was poison.

My dad looked down at the mess on the floor. Then he looked at Brad’s expensive sneakers.

“You made this mess?”

“It was an accident,” Brad lied, his voice cracking.

My dad smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “I have satellites that can read a license plate from space, son. Do you really think I can’t find out what happened in a high school cafeteria within five minutes?”

He pointed a gloved finger at the phone in Brad’s hand.

“That device. It’s recording, isn’t it?”

Brad nodded, too terrified to speak.

“Good,” my dad said. “Keep recording. I want everyone to see this.”

The Rank of Decency

The cafeteria was a vacuum of sound. Three hundred teenagers, usually a chaotic storm of hormones and noise, were frozen statues.

My dad, General Vance Sterling, stood over Brad. The contrast was almost comical. Brad, in his letterman jacket, the king of the school, looked like a child caught stealing cookies. My dad looked like he was deciding whether or not to authorize an airstrike.

“I’m waiting,” my dad said.

“For what?” Brad squeaked, his voice cracking mid-syllable.

“For you to rectify this situation.”

My dad pointed at the floor. At the slurry of taco meat, salsa, and chocolate milk that was slowly spreading across the tiles. The mess that was supposed to be my humiliation.

“You want me to… clean it?” Brad asked, incredulity warring with fear.

“I want you to leave this area in the same condition you found it,” my dad corrected. “And since you are the one who deployed the payload, you are the one who will handle the cleanup.”

Brad looked around. He looked at the Principal, Mr. Henderson, who was wiping sweat from his bald head with a handkerchief, pretending to be fascinated by the ceiling tiles. He looked for his friends, but the space where Mark and Jason had been standing was now empty.

“I don’t have a mop,” Brad mumbled, a weak attempt at defiance.

My dad didn’t blink. He reached into the cargo pocket of his uniform pants—the pristine, pressed trousers—and pulled out a second handkerchief. He held it out.

“Improvise,” my dad said.

Brad stared at the cloth. “You’re kidding. You want me to do it by hand?”

“I watched my daughter on her knees,” my dad said, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like gravel grinding together. “She didn’t choose to be there. You put her there. Now, you choose. You can clean this up, right now, or we can have a very long conversation with the local police about assault and battery. And trust me, son, I have JAG lawyers who eat reckless teenagers for breakfast.”

The threat hung in the air.

Brad looked at the phone in his hand. He looked at the students watching. His reputation was dissolving in real-time.

Slowly, agonizingly, Brad lowered himself.

He ruined his jeans. He knelt in the puddle of milk.

He took the handkerchief from my dad’s hand.

And he started to wipe.

It was humiliating. It was gross. And it was silent. The only sound was the wet slop of the cloth against the floor and Brad’s ragged breathing.

I stood there, tucked under my dad’s arm, watching the boy who had tormented me for weeks scrubbing the floor at my feet. I didn’t feel triumphant. I didn’t feel happy.

I felt… relieved.

“Missed a spot,” my dad said calmly, pointing to a smear of salsa near my sneaker.

Brad gritted his teeth, his face beet red. He scooted forward and wiped it up.

When the floor was mostly just a wet stain, Brad stood up. His knees were soaked with chocolate milk. His hands were covered in taco grease. He looked ready to vomit.

“Done,” Brad spat. “Happy?”

My dad looked at the floor, inspecting it with the same scrutiny he probably gave a barracks inspection.

“It’s not about my happiness, son,” my dad said. “It’s about your honor. You seem to have misplaced it.”

My dad turned to me. “Grab your bag, Sophie. We’re leaving.”

“But… fifth period,” I whispered.

“You’re done for the day,” he said softly. Then, he looked at Mr. Henderson. “Principal. A word in your office. Now.”

It wasn’t a request.

Mr. Henderson nodded frantically. “Yes, General. Right this way.”

The Chain of Command

The Principal’s office was air-conditioned and smelled of stale coffee. It was lined with trophies from the football team—Brad’s team.

My dad sat in a chair that looked too small for him. I sat next to him, clutching my backpack like a shield. Mr. Henderson sat behind his desk, trying to look authoritative, but failing miserably against the four stars sitting across from him.

“General Sterling,” Mr. Henderson started, “I want to apologize for the… incident. Boys will be boys, you know? High school antics.”

My dad didn’t say anything. He just stared.

“I mean,” Henderson continued, sweating again, “we have a zero-tolerance policy, of course. But Brad Harrison… well, he’s our star quarterback. And his father is on the school board. Mr. Harrison is a very influential man in this town.”

“Is that so?” my dad said. He crossed his legs. “Is he more influential than the United States Army?”

Mr. Henderson chuckled nervously. “Well, no, but… we have to be practical. We can suspend Brad for a day or two. A slap on the wrist. We don’t want to ruin a young man’s future over a spilled lunch, do we?”

The door to the office flew open.

A man stormed in. He was wearing an expensive suit and looked like an older, angrier version of Brad.

“What is the meaning of this?” the man boomed. “My son just called me. He says some soldier humiliated him in front of the whole school! He says he was forced to clean the floor like a janitor!”

This was obviously Mr. Harrison.

He looked at my dad. “Who do you think you are? You can’t treat my son like that. Do you know how much money I donate to this school?”

My dad stood up. He rose slowly, unfolding his height until he loomed over the angry father.

“Mr. Harrison,” my dad said. “I am General Vance Sterling. And today, I watched your son assault my daughter.”

“Assault?” Harrison scoffed. “It was a prank! Kids possess no sense of humor these days. And you… you think because you wear a costume you can boss civilians around?”

“Costume,” my dad repeated. He looked down at his uniform. Then he looked back at Harrison.

“Mr. Harrison, do you own the Harrison Construction Group?”

Harrison blinked, caught off guard. “Yes. I do. What of it?”

“You have a pending contract for the new base housing annex at Fort Belvoir,” my dad said. “I saw the paperwork on my desk this morning.”

The color drained from Harrison’s face. “I… that’s a multi-million dollar contract. We’re in final approvals.”

“Final approvals require a signature,” my dad said pleasantly. “My signature.”

The room went deathly silent.

“Now,” my dad continued, stepping closer. “I don’t mix personal grievances with professional duties. That would be unethical. However, I do wonder if a man who raises a son to lack basic discipline and respect is the right man to build homes for my soldiers. Character counts, Mr. Harrison. In business, and in parenting.”

Harrison opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at the Principal. He looked at his shoes. The arrogance evaporated, replaced by the terrified realization that he was punching way, way above his weight class.

“I expect,” my dad said, turning back to the Principal, “that the school’s zero-tolerance policy will be enforced. Strictly. If I hear that my daughter has been harassed, approached, or even looked at the wrong way by your son or his friends again… I won’t be coming to the school.”

He paused.

“I’ll be going to the press. And then I’ll be going to the jagged edge of the law. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Mr. Henderson whispered.

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Harrison muttered, his voice barely audible.

“Come on, Sophie,” my dad said.

He opened the door for me. We walked out, leaving the two most powerful men in the town sitting in stunned silence.

The War Room

The drive home was quiet. We took the Jeep—my dad’s personal vehicle, which he kept as spotless as a tank.

I stared out the window, watching the suburban houses blur by. My heart was still pounding.

“Dad?” I asked softly.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Are you… are you in trouble? For what you did?”

He glanced at me, his blue eyes softening. “For making a bully clean up his mess? No. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t threaten him with violence. I just gave him a choice.”

“Everyone was filming,” I said, a knot forming in my stomach. “It’s going to be on the internet.”

“Let it be,” he said.

By the time we got home, “let it be” was an understatement.

My phone, which I had turned off, buzzed to life as soon as I walked into my room.

Instagram. TikTok. Snapchat.

Notifications were scrolling so fast I couldn’t read them.

The video was everywhere. #GeneralDad was trending.

I clicked on one. It was the angle from three tables away. You could see me on the floor. You could see the despair. And then, the door opening. The General walking in. The silence.

The comments weren’t making fun of me anymore.

“OMG that entrance was legendary.” “The way the bully folded instantly.” “Who is he? That’s a 4-star!” “I wish my dad would do that for me.” “Respect to the dad. That girl must be so proud.”

Proud?

I looked in the mirror. I still had a faint smear of salsa on my neck. My eyes were puffy.

I didn’t feel proud. I felt exposed. I had needed my daddy to save me. I was fifteen years old, and I couldn’t fight my own battles.

A knock on my door.

My dad came in. He had changed out of his uniform into a grey t-shirt and sweatpants. He held two mugs of hot chocolate.

“Mom’s recipe,” he said, handing me one. “Extra marshmallows.”

He sat on the edge of my bed.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“That I’m weak?” I asked, staring into the cocoa.

“No,” he said firmly. “That you’re a target. There’s a difference.”

He took a sip. “Sophie, in the field, we don’t judge a soldier by whether they get ambushed. Ambushes happen. We judge them by how they regroup.”

“I just wanted to disappear,” I admitted.

“That’s a natural reaction to trauma,” he said. “But you can’t disappear. You’re a Sterling. And more importantly, you’re your mother’s daughter. She never backed down from anything. Not even the cancer.”

I looked at the photo on my nightstand. My mom, laughing, her hair wild in the wind. She died three years ago. That’s when the moving started. That’s when my dad buried himself in work to forget the silence in the house.

“I don’t want to go back tomorrow,” I said.

My dad nodded. “I know. It would be easier to transfer you. Or homeschool you.”

He looked at me. “But if we retreat now, Brad wins. If we retreat, every bully in that school learns that they can break people and get away with it.”

He put a hand on my knee.

“You don’t have to fight them, Sophie. You just have to stand there. I’ve cleared the perimeter. Now you have to hold the ground.”

“Will you be there?” I asked.

“I can’t be in the hallway with you,” he said. “But I’ve got your six. Always.”

The Assembly

I walked into school the next morning wearing my armor.

Black jeans. Combat boots (a gift from dad). A denim jacket.

I kept my head up.

The hallway was weird. Usually, people would bump into me or ignore me. Today, it was like Moses parting the Red Sea. People stepped aside. They whispered, but they weren’t pointing and laughing. They were looking at me with wide eyes.

“That’s her,” someone whispered. ”The General’s daughter.”

I got to my locker. It hadn’t been vandalized. In fact, someone had taped a note to it.

Sorry about Brad. He’s a jerk. – Anonymous

I took a deep breath. I could do this.

Then, the loudspeaker crackled.

“Attention students. Please proceed immediately to the main gymnasium for a mandatory assembly.”

My stomach dropped. Was this about me?

I walked to the gym, merging with the flow of students. I found a spot on the bleachers near the back.

Mr. Henderson walked to the podium in the center of the basketball court. He looked nervous.

“Good morning, Crestview,” he said into the microphone. “Today, we are making some changes to our community standards. To explain, we have a guest speaker.”

Mr. Henderson stepped back.

From the side entrance, my dad walked out.

He wasn’t in uniform this time. He was wearing a sharp navy blue suit. But he still commanded the room just as effectively.

He took the mic. He didn’t stand behind the podium; he walked out onto the floor, pacing slowly, looking up at the bleachers.

“I am General Vance Sterling,” he began. His voice didn’t boom, but the acoustics carried it perfectly. “I am a soldier. I have spent thirty years learning about strength.”

He paused, scanning the faces of the teenagers.

“There is a misconception in this school. A misconception that strength is about who can throw a ball the farthest. Who can lift the most weight. Who can shout the loudest.”

He stopped walking and looked directly at the section where the football team sat. Brad was there, head down, wearing a hoodie, trying to be invisible.

“That is not strength,” my dad said. “That is physics. Any machine can lift a weight. Any animal can make noise.”

“True strength,” he continued, “is the ability to control your power. It is the discipline to protect those who cannot protect themselves. It is the courage to be kind when it is easier to be cruel.”

The gym was dead silent.

“Yesterday, I saw weakness in this cafeteria,” my dad said. “I saw a mob attacking a single individual. That is the definition of cowardice. In my unit, if you leave a man behind, you are out. If you turn on your own squad, you are court-martialed.”

“You are all a squad,” he said, gesturing to the whole room. “This school is your unit. And right now, you are failing your mission.”

He looked up, and for a second, his eyes met mine.

“But you can change the objective. Starting today, the standard is raised. If you see someone eating alone, you sit with them. If you see someone being pushed, you push back. You are Americans. You are the future of this nation. Act like it.”

He dropped to his mic to his side.

“Dismissed.”

Mission Accomplished

The change wasn’t overnight, but it was palpable.

The “Hierarchy” of Crestview High didn’t disappear, but it fractured. Brad was still popular—he was still the quarterback—but his invincibility was gone. The video of him scrubbing the floor had been viewed three million times. He wasn’t the “King” anymore; he was the guy who got owned by a dad.

During lunch that day, I walked into the cafeteria.

I felt the anxiety spike. The smell of tacos triggered a phantom sensation of salsa on my skin.

I walked toward my corner table.

But it wasn’t empty.

Sitting there was a girl with bright pink hair. I recognized her from Art class. And a guy with a cello case. And two other “invisible” kids.

They looked up as I approached.

“Is this seat taken?” I asked, gripping my tray.

“We saved it for you,” the pink-haired girl said. She kicked out a chair. “I’m Maya.”

“Sophie,” I said, sitting down.

“We saw your dad,” the cello guy said. “That was… intense.”

“Yeah,” I smiled weakly. “He can be.”

“He was right, though,” Maya said. She opened her own Tupperware. “Brad’s been a nightmare for years. Nobody ever stood up to him because his dad owns half the town. It was nice to see him… scared.”

I looked across the cafeteria.

Brad was at the center table. He wasn’t laughing loud. He wasn’t throwing food. He caught my eye.

For a second, I thought he was going to glare. To make a face.

But he didn’t. He looked at me, then looked down at his tray, and nodded once. A short, jerky nod.

It wasn’t an apology. But it was a truce. He knew the boundaries now. He knew that the perimeter was secured.

Three months later.

It was a Friday night. My dad was in the kitchen, trying to cook spaghetti. Cooking was not his forte—he was used to MREs and mess halls—but he was trying.

“Pasta is supposed to be al dente, Dad, not crunchy,” I laughed, testing a noodle.

“It’s tactical pasta,” he grunted. “Sustains you longer.”

The doorbell rang.

I went to answer it. Standing on the porch was Maya and the cello guy, whose name was Leo.

“Hey,” Maya said. “We’re going to the movies. Galaxy Wars. You coming?”

I looked back at my dad. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He wasn’t wearing his uniform. He was wearing a “World’s Okayest Golfer” t-shirt I had bought him as a joke.

“Go,” he said, waving a spoon. “I’ll save the crunchy pasta for myself.”

“You sure?” I asked.

“Negative, soldier. Go execute the mission. Have fun.”

I grabbed my jacket and stepped out onto the porch. The night air was cool.

I looked back at the house. Through the window, I saw my dad go back to the stove. He looked lonely, but he didn’t look sad. He looked… at peace.

He had spent his whole life fighting wars across the ocean. He had missed birthdays, anniversaries, and milestones to protect people he would never meet.

But his most important victory wasn’t a medal on his chest. It wasn’t the four stars on his shoulder.

It was this. It was me, walking out the door with friends, unafraid.

I realized then that he hadn’t just silenced the bully. He had silenced the fear inside of me.

“Coming, Sophie?” Leo asked.

“Yeah,” I said, turning toward the driveway. “I’m coming.”

I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I knew the General was holding the line.

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