“What lapel pin?”
Davis squinted, trying to remember the worn shape, the wings, the shield, the quiet dignity of it.
“Old wings, sir. Small shield in the middle. Tarnished. I don’t know the exact insignia.”
The line went so silent Davis thought the call had dropped, until Thorne spoke again, slower now.
“Describe the man.”
“Elderly. Tweed jacket. White shirt. Eating alone. Name might be Stanton, sir, from the visitor log.”
This time Davis heard the chair scrape all the way back, sharp against the office floor.
“Do not hang up. Do not interfere unless Miller puts hands on him. I’m coming.”
Davis opened his mouth to answer, but the line had already gone dead against his ear.
He stood there for one extra second, receiver in hand, feeling both relieved and terrified by what he had done.
Outside, the mess hall had not exploded into action. That somehow made it worse.
Everyone was still pretending the room was normal, while every face had tilted slightly toward the old man’s table.
Miller had bent closer, close enough that George could smell the coffee on his breath and the salt on his skin.
“I said get up,” Miller told him, each word clipped with the confidence of someone accustomed to obedience.
George looked down at the hand pointing toward his shoulder, then slowly lifted his eyes to Miller’s face.
