A cup sat tilted in one hand.
A young sailor near the wall looked at the American flag by the entrance and then back down at his tray, as if the flag might save him from choosing.
George did not reach for his wallet.
He reached for his water again.
He took one slow sip.
That patience made Miller look worse than any insult could have.
“That’s it,” Miller said. “You and me. We’re taking a walk to see the MA. Get up. Now.”
Then his eyes caught the small tarnished pin on George’s lapel.
It had been half-hidden by the tweed.
It was not polished.
It did not shine under the fluorescent lights.
Miller pointed at it as though he had found the punch line he needed.
“And what’s that supposed to be?”
George’s hand stopped beside the cup.
Three tables away, an older sailor lowered his fork.
He had been chewing in silence since the first insult, the kind of silence older enlisted men sometimes use while deciding whether a young fool can still rescue himself.
Now his fork touched the tray without a sound.
His face changed.
Then his posture changed.
He stood up.
The chair legs scraped once against the floor, and that one scrape did what Miller’s voice had failed to do.
It made the whole room pay attention.
