I stared at him.
This was not an evaluation.
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It was a setup.
“Who’s observing?”
“Cross. Myself. Three behavioral contractors. Brigadier General Daniel Whitfield.”
That name tightened something in my chest.
Whitfield had signed the report blaming Marcus Dole for his own death.
I had read that report three times.
Each time, something about it felt wrong.
“How many handlers tried these dogs after Marcus died?” I asked.
“Seven.”
“Seven strangers. Seven methods. Seven failures. And somehow the dogs are the problem?”
Hargrove’s jaw hardened.
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“They’re aggressive.”
“No,” I said. “They’re grieving.”
After he left, I stayed beside the kennel.
Thor watched me.
“I know he’s not coming back,” I whispered. “I’m not him.”
His ears shifted.
“But I’m not leaving either.”
His tail moved once against the concrete.
That night, I slept in my truck while Pacific wind rattled the windows.
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