“Yes.”
His confidence tried to return, but it limped now.
“With all respect, Commander, you can’t simply bring an operational canine unit into a civilian school gym.”
My mother glanced toward the dogs.
“Training unit.”
“Still,” he said, voice tightening, “this is highly irregular.”
“That’s why I filed the paperwork.”
A few teachers looked toward Principal Wallace, who had been standing near the bleachers with a clipboard clutched against his chest. His mouth opened and closed once.
“I received a notice,” he admitted weakly. “I thought it was for a small demonstration. Maybe two dogs.”
Master Sergeant Vale did not blink.
“You approved Harborview High as a controlled environment for a multi-dog obedience and threat-identification exercise.”
The principal looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
“I may not have read every attachment.”
My mother’s gaze returned to Lieutenant Carter.
“You wanted a demonstration.”
The gym went so quiet that I could hear the faint hum of the overhead lights.
Lieutenant Carter looked at the students, then at the teachers, then finally at my mother.
He had a choice.
Back down publicly, or continue the performance he had started.
Men like him rarely choose humility when an audience is watching.
He lifted the microphone again.
“Of course,” he said, forcing a smile. “Everyone here would benefit from seeing proper discipline in action.”
My mother’s eyes narrowed slightly.
It was the only sign she gave.
But I knew her.
That tiny shift meant Lieutenant Carter had just stepped exactly where she wanted him.
She turned toward the dogs.
“Line.”
One word.
read more in next page
