My dad introduced me as “his little clerk.” Then his old Navy friend looked closer—and realized who I really was.
“Likewise.”
My father clapped his shoulder. “Jake just got back from a rotation overseas. Can’t talk about it, but let’s just say he’s been keeping the bad guys on their toes.” He grinned the way men grin when they want credit for proximity.
We drifted toward the grill. Men talked about the Nationals like they were a stubborn child and the weather like it was a fond enemy. I stood at the edge of their circle, smiling when required, calculating how long a dutiful daughter stays before escape qualifies as respect.
Reins was in the middle of a story about a broken prop and a bad landing when his gaze dropped to my left forearm. The sleeve of my dress whites didn’t reach my elbow. The small tattoo there—ink I’d gotten in a moment when youth and loyalty outvoted regulation—peeked like a secret that had learned how to breathe in daylight.
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.
Reins didn’t answer him. He was still looking at me, his mind assembling the puzzle handed to him by carelessness and sunlight: my age; my uniform; my rank stripes; the tattoo I should never have.
He straightened. Hands at his sides. Chin tucked a fraction. He looked like a man finding a superior officer in a crowd of civilians and remembering, in an instant, all the steps.
“Admiral Callahan,” he said, voice formal and crisp. “Ma’am. It’s an honor.”
