"Okay, Doc." Dean tugs gently on the lead, and Ranger rises to his feet. "I'll check the lead situation. And maybe stop by the base K9 unit for some extra training sessions for him."
"You do that."
"And maybe stop by here again too. In case Ranger needs a follow-up."
"He doesn't."
"What if he does though?"
"He won't."
"But hypothetically?—"
"Goodbye, Mr. Mercer."
"Bingo."
"Excuse me?"
"If you're going to kick me out, at least use the right name." That damn grin again. "It's Captain, technically. But you can call me Bingo."
"I absolutely will not."
"Most people do."
"I'm not most people."
His expression flickers—there and gone before I can read it. "No," he says quietly. "I don't think you are."
The words land in my chest, somewhere soft and poorly defended.
I cover by turning back to my exam table, shuffling papers that don't need shuffling. "Have a good day, Captain."
"Dean."
"Have a good day, Bingo."
His laugh follows him out of the exam room, through the destroyed waiting room where Linda is already righting the magazine rack, and out the front door. The bell chimes his exit.
Through the window, I watch him pause on the sidewalk to let Ranger sniff at a fire hydrant. The afternoon sun catches the silver on his flight suit. He says something to the dog—too far away to hear—and Ranger's tail wags in response.
Then Dean turns toward Main Street and starts walking.
Ranger looks back at the clinic. At me.
The pilot doesn't.
Somehow, that's worse.
Chapter 2
Dean
The squad's already heard about Ranger's downtown adventure by the time I walk into Maggie's Place, because of course they have. News travels faster than an F-16 in this town, and Javi Mendoza's shit-eating grin confirms I'm about to pay for every sin I've ever committed.
The bell over the door chimes as it swings shut behind me, and the familiar smell of Maggie's Place wraps around me like a well-worn blanket. Bacon grease and fresh coffee. Vinyl booths and chrome accents. A jukebox in the corner playing something twangy that nobody asked for but everybody tolerates.
The checkered floor is scuffed from decades of boots—military and civilian alike—and the walls are covered in faded photos of airmen and soldiers who've passed through over the years. Some of them are legends now. Some of them are gone. All of them ate Maggie's Ridgeburgers and probably spilled their secrets to the woman who runs this place.
