Part 1

The smell of industrial bleach and stale coffee burned my nostrils. It was my world now. 05:30, Naval Headquarters cafeteria. The hum of the floor buffer was my soundtrack, the rhythmic slosh of my mop the beat.

“You missed a spot, janitor.”

Laughter rippled through a table of fresh-faced recruits, their new uniforms still stiff. I didn’t look up. Looking up invited interaction. Interaction meant trouble. I was invisible. A ghost pushing dirty water across linoleum. That’s what I needed to be. For Ben.

My focus was on the black scuff mark near table four. My son, Ben, had an asthma attack last night. A bad one. The rasp of his breath, the panic in his seven-year-old eyes… it haunted my every waking second. The co-pay for his new inhaler was $80. That was two double shifts. So, I scrubbed. Let them laugh.

A shadow fell over me. The polished gleam of expensive shoes entered my periphery. I stopped mopping. The cafeteria’s cheerful morning buzz died, replaced by a tense, expectant silence.

“Hey, janitor.”

I looked up, slowly. Admiral Lewis. A man whose chest looked like a Christmas tree, draped in ribbons and metal. A “war hero.” He was holding court with the young recruits, a king on his throne. He flashed a politician’s smile.

“You look like you’ve seen some battles yourself,” he joked, gesturing to my worn-out utility uniform. The recruits chuckled nervously. “What’s your call sign, huh? ‘Scrub-Master’? ‘Captain Mop’?”

More laughter. It was sharp, cruel. It pricked at something deep inside me, something I’d buried under six feet of grief and duty. I could feel the heat rise in my neck. My hand tightened on the mop handle. I could disarm him and have him on the floor in under two seconds. The thought was automatic, a reflex, like breathing.

I saw the faces staring at me. Smirking. Waiting. They saw a broken-down single dad, a failure, the guy who cleans up their spills. They didn’t see the man who had stalked shadows in places that didn’t officially exist. They didn’t see the things these hands had done.

I usually stayed quiet. I’d learned that. Quiet meant keeping my job. Quiet meant Ben was safe, fed, and had his medicine. I’d swallowed my pride so many times I’d forgotten what it tasted like.

But this was different. It wasn’t just the mockery. It was the arrogance. The casual disdain from a man who wore his heroism like a costume, while I had buried mine with my wife. He was mocking the very idea of silent service.

I let out a slow breath. I met his eyes. Mine were calm. Empty. That’s what they used to say. “Eagle’s eyes. Dead. Nothing behind them.”

The room was completely silent. Even the kitchen clatter had stopped.

I leaned in, just slightly. My voice was barely a whisper, rough from disuse.

“Lone Eagle.”

It wasn’t a boast. It was a statement. A ghost rattling its chains.

The admiral’s smile didn’t just fade; it shattered. The blood drained from his face, leaving a sickly, pale sheen. His hand, which had been gesturing grandly, froze midair. The coffee cup in his other hand trembled, rattling against the saucer.

He knew that name.

The recruits looked back and forth, confused. The silence stretched, becoming heavy, suffocating. It was louder than any explosion I’d ever heard.

Admiral Lewis stared at me, but he wasn’t seeing a janitor. He was seeing a desert night, smelling the cordite and iron. He was seeing a mangled Humvee, hearing the screams of his men. He was feeling the pressure of my hand on his femoral artery, my voice in his ear as I dragged his bleeding, broken body through a mile of firefight.

“Operation Silent Ridge.”

He knew that name, too. He’d been there. He’d been the “package” I was sent to retrieve. The package everyone else had written off as dead.

“Your… your Evans,” he whispered. His voice was choked.

I just nodded. Once.

Then I picked up my mop. The black scuff mark was still there. I went back to work.

“Get out,” Lewis barked at the recruits. Not at me. At them. “All of you. Now!”

Chairs scraped. Boots shuffled. The cafeteria emptied in seconds. I just kept mopping. Slosh. Slosh.

I heard him step closer. “Mark… My God. Why are you…?”

“My boy,” I said, not looking up. “He needs me. This job lets me be there. Lets me pick him up from school.”

“But… your medals. Your record. You were the best of us.”

“They don’t pay for asthma medicine, sir.” I wrung out the mop, the dirty water swirling down the drain. “My wife… she died while I was deployed. On that last run. The one after I pulled you out.”

The words hung in the air. He hadn’t known that part. I’d been on a black-ops mission, hunting the men who ambushed his convoy, when I got the call. A drunk driver. A winding road. My wife, Sarah, gone. Just… gone. I came home to a flag, a eulogy, and a two-year-old boy who didn’t recognize his own father.

I left the service a week later. Vanished. Sold everything. I became a ghost for real, all for the little boy who drew airplanes and called me his superhero.

“Mark, I…” he started, but he didn’t know what to say. What could he say?

“Enjoy your breakfast, Admiral.”

I pushed my bucket out of the cafeteria, leaving him standing alone among the empty tables. The rumors started before I’d even finished the hallway. They spread like wildfire. The janitor was a SEAL. Not just a SEAL. He was Lone Eagle.

It didn’t matter. I punched out at 14:00, just like always. I had to pick up Ben from school.

Part 2

For three weeks, the base became a different kind of prison.

The mockery stopped, yes. But it was replaced by something worse: noise. Whispers followed me as I emptied trash cans. “That’s him… Lone Eagle…” Young recruits, the same ones who’d laughed, would now snap to attention, their eyes wide, when I walked by with my trash barrel. They’d stare at my hands—calloused and stained from bleach—as if wondering how many lives they’d taken.

Officers who used to look through me, now looked at me. They’d nod curtly, their faces a mask of confusion, trying to reconcile the man cleaning the latrines with the ghost from their classified briefings.

The worst, though, was Commander Thorne. He was Admiral Lewis’s executive officer, a man who lived and breathed regulations. He saw the world in black and white: officers and enlisted, order and chaos. I was chaos. He hated the whispers. He hated the way the recruits looked at me. A janitor shouldn’t disrupt the chain of command. I saw him watching me from the doorway of the Officer’s Mess. His eyes were cold, calculating. I wasn’t a legend to him; I was a problem to be solved.

Then came the conversation. Lewis called me to his office. It was vast, smelling of old leather and furniture polish. A world away from my tiny, damp apartment.

“Mark, for God’s sake,” he said, skipping the pleasantries. He looked tired. “I’ve spent three weeks pulling strings. I can get you reinstated. A training billet. E-7. Full benefits. You’d be off your feet, teaching. No more… this.” He gestured vaguely, as if “this” was a bad smell.

I looked out his window. I could see the gate. I could see the road Ben’s school bus used. “I appreciate it, Admiral. I really do. But a training billet is 06:00 to 18:00. Minimum. What happens when Ben has an attack? This job,” I tapped my simple janitor’s ID, “I’m off at 14:00. I can be at his school in ten minutes. If he has a bad night, I can swap a shift. No questions asked.”

“We can make accommodations!” he insisted, his voice rising.

“Like you did for Sarah?”

The words hit the air and hung there, heavy and toxic. His face fell. He sank into his leather chair. Sarah. My wife. The drunk driver had hit her on a Tuesday. I was 8,000 miles away, on a mission he had authorized, hunting the men who ambushed his convoy.

“That’s not fair, Mark,” he whispered.

“No, sir. It’s not,” I said, my voice quiet. “But it’s the truth. The service takes. That’s its job. It took my wife. It took my partner on that op. It almost took you. I won’t let it take one more minute from my son.”

“So you’re just… going to mop floors? Until when? Until he’s 18? That’s not a life, Mark. It’s a penance.”

“It’s my life,” I said. “And it’s the only one I want. I’m good here, sir.”

I left him there, standing by his window. I think he was starting to understand. This wasn’t about pride. It wasn’t about humility. It was about control. The Teams had taught me to control the environment. Now, my environment was Ben’s life. I would control every variable. His medicine. His pick-up times. His meals. I would be the father I was never allowed to be when I was a “hero.”

Thorne was waiting for me outside the Admiral’s office.

“Evans,” he said, his voice a sharp clip. “Your break was over five minutes ago. The toilets in Building 4 are overflowing. Get to it.”

He didn’t see a hero. He saw a janitor who was late.

“Yes, sir,” I said. And I went to get my mop.

Life settled back into its grim, familiar rhythm. Mop. Buff. Trash. Bills. And fear.

Two weeks after my talk with Lewis, it happened. The 02:00 a.m. terror.

“Dad…”

The word was a gasp. I was out of my cot before I was even awake, kneeling by his bed. Ben was sitting up, his small body rigid, his chest heaving. The sound. A high-pitched, whistling gasp. He wasn’t getting air.

“Okay, buddy. Okay. I’m right here,” I said, my voice calm, the ‘Lone Eagle’ voice I used to use on bleeding-out teammates. “Let’s get your friend.”

I grabbed the nebulizer. My hands, which had field-stripped a rifle in the dark, fumbled with the tiny plastic tube of albuterol. Shake. Pour. Connect. I strapped the mask to his face. The machine hissed to life, pumping a fine mist into his lungs.

“Breathe with me, Ben. In… two… three… and out… two… three…”

We sat there for twenty minutes, the only sound in the dark apartment the hiss of the machine and the slow, agonizing return of his breathing. His small hand gripped my arm, his fingernails digging into my skin.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, rocking him. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

The attack subsided. He fell back asleep, his face pale, dark circles under his eyes. I did not. I sat on the floor by his bed, watching his chest rise and fall until the sun came up.

I was late for my shift. The ER co-pay for the new prescription had wiped out my grocery money. I was tired. I was scared. And I was exactly where I needed to be.

When I got to the base, Commander Thorne wrote me up for being 30 minutes late. I just signed the paper.

Then came the storm.

It rolled in off the coast like an invading army, black and violent. We hadn’t seen weather like this since ’98. This wasn’t just rain; it was a physical force. The wind didn’t howl; it screamed, a solid wall of sound that made the concrete headquarters building tremble.

I was on a double, trying to make up the money for that ER visit. The base was on high alert. I was supposed to be cleaning the comms center. Most non-essential personnel had been sent home, but “essential” apparently included the guy who emptied the trash and mopped up the water leaking in from the windows.

The comms center was buzzing, but it was a panicked energy.

“What’s the last update?” an officer shouted over the din.

“Still nothing, sir! Mayday call cut off. Went down approximately 10 clicks northeast of the cape. Right in the ‘Devil’s Jaw’ rocks.”

“Rescue teams?”

“Grounded! Air can’t fly in this. Coast Guard bird turned back. Sea state is catastrophic. We can’t get a boat out there!”

My stomach clenched. I stopped wiping down a console, my rag hovering. I looked at the digital map on the main screen. A red ‘X’ flashed over the Devil’s Jaw. I knew that spot. We’d used it for clandestine training. It was a meat grinder of jagged, submerged rocks and competing currents.

“Who’s out there?” I asked the nearest comms tech, a young kid whose face was slick with sweat.

He glanced at me, annoyed, then did a double-take. “Oh… uh, Mr. Evans. It’s a training bird. Four cadets. Just… kids.”

Four kids. My blood went cold.

Commander Thorne was at the center of the room, his face rigid. “Get me a timeline for the storm breaking! I want air assets ready to launch the second it clears.”

“That’s six hours, minimum, sir!” a meteorologist yelled back. “Maybe eight!”

I looked at the tidal chart on a secondary monitor. My brain, the part I’d tried to kill, clicked on. The storm surge was peaking. The wind was from the northeast. But the tide… the tide was about to turn. An ebb tide.

“They don’t have six hours,” I said, my voice flat.

The entire room went silent. Every head turned to me. The janitor. Holding a dirty rag.

Thorne’s eyes narrowed into slits. “What did you say, Evans?”

“They don’t have six hours,” I repeated, walking toward the main map. I pointed to the tidal chart. “Look. Storm surge is peaking. But the tide’s turning in…” I checked the clock. “12 minutes. An ebb tide. When that tide starts pulling out, and this northeaster is pushing in… it’s going to create a shear. It’ll pull that wreckage off the rocks like a bottle cap. It’ll suck it right out to sea. They go with it, you’ll never find them. They’ll be gone.”

“That is a ridiculous, unverified assumption,” Thorne snapped.

“It’s not an assumption, Commander,” I said. “It’s a fact. I’ve trained in that water. I know that current. You’re not looking at a rescue. You’re looking at a body recovery. And you’ve got about 10 minutes to change that.”

“Get this man off my bridge!” Thorne roared, his face purple. “He’s a civilian! He has no clearance!”

“He has my clearance.”

Admiral Lewis stood in the doorway, his rain-soaked cover in his hand. He looked like he’d run across the base. He ignored Thorne and walked straight to me. His eyes weren’t asking. They were pleading.

“Evans,” he said, his voice a low command. “You think you can get to them?”

This was the moment. The choice. The one I’d run from.

I saw Ben’s face. His smile. The feel of his small hand in mine. If I went out there, I might not come back. The Devil’s Jaw? In this? It was a suicide run. Who would pack his lunch? Who would read him his stories? Who would hold him when he woke up wheezing in the dark? I would make my son an orphan.

Then, from one of the speakers, a looped recording of the Mayday call played. A thin, terrified voice. “…Mayday, Mayday… we’re going down… oh God, please, somebody… I don’t… I don’t want to die…”

A kid. Just a kid.

I had spent my entire life running toward the sound of the guns. I had left that life to be a father. But what kind of father would I be if I stood here, with the skills to save those kids, and did nothing but mop the floor?

I looked at Lewis. The Admiral was gone. I saw the man I’d dragged through the desert.

“I can,” I said.

Then I looked at the terrified comms tech. “Get me a wet suit. The 7mm thermal. And a Zodiac. The heavy-assault model. The one with the twin 150s. And tell the tower to light up the coastline. I’m going in.”

Minutes later, I was at the pier. It was chaos. The wind physically shoved me, trying to throw me back to shore. The Zodiac, a 20-foot rigid-hull inflatable built for war, was in the water, bucking like a rodeo bull. Two terrified-looking petty officers were trying to hold it.

“Sir, you can’t!” one yelled over the wind. “The waves are 20 feet! It’ll tear this thing apart!”

I ignored him, jumping into the boat. My body moved on muscle memory. Check fuel line. Check GPS pod. Hit engine ignition. The twin 150-horsepower engines roared to life, a defiant growl against the storm’s shriek.

“Evans!”

Lewis was running down the pier, holding something. He didn’t have his hat. His perfect uniform was soaked. He shoved a radio into my hand. “This is on my personal command frequency. It’s you and me. No one else.”

“Thorne won’t like that,” I said, clipping it to my vest.

“Commander Thorne has been ordered to coordinate shoreline support. My orders,” he barked. He grabbed my shoulder. His grip was iron. “You come back, you hear me? That is a direct order, Mark!”

I didn’t say anything. I just nodded.

I jammed the throttle forward.

The boat didn’t accelerate; it leaped. I hit the first wave like it was a concrete wall. The impact sent a shock up my spine that rattled my teeth. Cold spray, hard as needles, blasted my face.

It was black. Utter, terrifying blackness, broken only by the flash of lightning that illuminated a sea of angry, mountainous waves. This wasn’t water. This was liquid chaos.

My training kicked in. The world shrank. The wind, the rain, the fear… it all faded. There was only the mission. I wasn’t Mark Evans, the dad. I was Lone Eagle. I didn’t fight the storm; I used it. I rode the back of one wave, slid down its trough, and angled the bow to meet the next. It was a violent, brutal dance.

The boat went airborne. For two, three, four seconds, we were in the air. Then we slammed down, the impact so hard I tasted blood. My ribs screamed. I ignored it.

“HQ, this is Eagle,” I yelled into the radio. “Approaching the Jaw. Sea state is worse than predicted. I’m flying blind.”

“Roger, Eagle,” Lewis’s voice crackled, full of static. “Keep talking to me.”

“Can’t. Need both hands.”

I was calculating. Wind. Current. Drift. The 10-minute window was closing. I had maybe two minutes left.

Lightning flashed, a massive, brilliant strobe. And I saw it.

There.

A jagged black rock, looking like a dragon’s tooth, jutted from the white foam. And clinging to it… the mangled, broken wreckage of the helicopter.

“I have visual!” I yelled.

But as I got closer, my heart sank. The rocks were a fortress. The waves were smashing against them, sending plumes of spray 50 feet into the air. One mistake and the Zodiac would be pulverized, and I’d be shredded with it. I couldn’t dock. I couldn’t tie off.

“Lewis, I can’t secure the boat!”

“…Mark… your call… whatever it takes…”

A one-way ticket.

I saw a low-lying shelf on the leeward side of the main rock. It was a suicidal move. But it was the only one.

I waited. Watched the pattern. One… two… three… On the fourth wave, the biggest, I turned the bow toward the rock and jammed the throttle.

“What are you…?” Lewis’s voice started.

I cut him off. “Tell Ben I love him.”

I hit the rock.

The sound was a catastrophic crunch of fiberglass and metal. The boat didn’t stop; it buckled and flew up onto the shelf, propelled by the wave. I was thrown clear, rolling, slamming my shoulder into the sharp, slick stone. I heard the engines die. I heard the Zodiac, my only ride home, crack in half as the next wave hit it and dragged its carcass back into the sea.

I was stranded.

“Help! Please, God, help us!”

I scrambled over the sharp, twisted metal of the chopper. I found them.

One girl. Maybe 19. Her face was blue. Unconscious. I checked her pulse. Faint. Thready. Hypothermia. I tore open my vest, grabbed a thermal blanket, and wrapped her tight.

The other three were huddled behind a piece of the fuselage. Two boys, one more girl.

“You’re… who are you?” one of them stammered, his teeth chattering. He had a nasty gash on his forehead.

“I’m the guy getting you home,” I said. The ‘Lone Eagle’ voice. Calm. Absolute. “Injuries. Report. Now.”

“My… my leg,” the other boy (Harris) whispered, pointing. It was bad. A compound fracture. Bone glistening white in the dark.

“I’m okay, I think,” the first boy (Diaz) said, the one with the head gash. He was in shock.

“I’m just cold,” the second girl (Chen) whispered.

“Okay. Listen to me.” I was in triage mode. “Harris, this is going to hurt.” I grabbed his leg. He screamed. I used two metal struts from the wreckage and my own belt to fashion a crude splint, pulling traction to set the bone. He passed out. “Good,” I muttered.

I turned to Diaz. “Your head is fine. You’re in shock.” I pulled the unconscious girl (Riley) next to us. “Chen, you and Diaz, huddle around her. Your body heat. Keep her alive. Do not let her go.”

They did it, their movements robotic.

I grabbed the radio. “HQ, this is Eagle. I have the packages. Four alive. Riley is unconscious, severe hypothermia. Harris has a compound fracture. Zodiac is lost. I repeat, Zodiac is lost. I am on the rock. How copy?”

The radio hissed. “…Mark… This is Lewis… The storm… it’s not breaking. We can’t… son, we can’t get to you. Air is a no-go. No boat can make that approach.”

The words hit me harder than the wave. No one is coming.

I looked at the four terrified kids. Diaz had heard. The hope in his eyes died, replaced by a flat, cold acceptance.

“No,” I said.

“Sir?” Diaz whispered.

“No,” I said again, louder. I turned to them, and the fire I thought had died with Sarah, the fire I’d buried under bleach and grief, roared back to life. “I didn’t come all this way to die. And neither did you.”

I scanned the wreckage. The main fuselage was wedged tight. But there, inside, still packed: the life raft.

It took me 10 minutes of fighting with bent metal, my hands getting sliced to ribbons, but I got it free. I pulled the cord. It hissed open, a bright yellow beacon of hope.

But it was damaged. A long gash in the side, from the crash. It was leaking.

“It’s a ticking clock,” I said to myself.

“Eagle, what’s happening?” Lewis’s voice was frantic.

“I have a raft. It’s damaged. Slow leak. But it’ll float. For a while.” I looked back at the ocean. The tide was pulling out. The shear was active. It was trying to suck us into the open Atlantic. But the shore… the shore was 10 clicks away.

“Listen to me,” I barked at the cadets. “This is our only shot. We are getting in that raft. I’m going to push us off on the back of a receding wave. It’s going to be rough. You will paddle. Harris, you’re injured, you keep Riley’s head above water. Chen, Diaz, you paddle with your hands. You paddle until your arms fall off. You do not stop. You do not look back. You paddle for the shore lights. Do you understand me?”

They all nodded, their faces pale but set.

I got them in. Harris and Riley in the middle. I waited. A massive wave crashed, surging up the rock. As it pulled back, creating that powerful, deadly undertow… I shoved.

“GO! PADDLE!”

The raft shot off the rock and into the black. I dove in after it, the water so cold it stopped my heart. I surfaced, gasping, and started swimming.

The next hour was a blur of agony. The water was a living, breathing monster. The raft, with its slow leak, was sitting low. It flipped. Twice.

The first time, Riley went under. I dove, blind, my hand finding her hair. I hauled her back, shoving her into the raft. “PADDLE!” I screamed.

The second time, Diaz panicked. “I can’t! I can’t do it!” he screamed, clinging to the side.

I swam to him. I backhanded him. Hard. “Yes. You. Can,” I growled, inches from his face. “You don’t quit. Not here. Not on me. Paddle!”

His eyes focused. He saw me. The real me. He nodded, and he paddled.

I wasn’t swimming. I was just… moving. My muscles were liquid fire. My body was screaming. The hypothermia was setting in. I could feel my thoughts slowing down.

I saw Sarah. She was standing on a warm beach, smiling. “It’s okay, Mark,” she whispered. “You can rest now. You’re so tired.”

“No,” I gasped, spitting out saltwater.

I saw Ben. He was at his school, waiting by the gate. Alone.

“No,” I said again. I kicked harder. I pushed the raft. I was the engine.

“Talk to me, Diaz!” I yelled, my voice a raw croak. “Tell me about your home! What’s your mom’s name?”

“Ma… Maria…” he chattered.

“Good! Chen! What’s your major?”

“Bio… biology…”

“Good! Keep talking! Don’t you close your eyes!”

I swam until I had nothing left. I kicked until my legs were numb, useless weights. And then, through the fog and the rain, I felt it.

Not water. Not rock.

Sand.

My knees hit the beach. I collapsed, face-first, in the surf. I couldn’t move. But I still had Riley’s collar in my hand. I dragged her. The raft washed up beside me, the other three cadets spilling out, coughing and vomiting seawater.

We were back.

I saw lights. Figures running. The entire base, it seemed, was on the beach. Medics. Officers.

And Admiral Lewis.

He ran straight into the surf. He wasn’t an Admiral. He was just a man. He grabbed me, hauling me to my feet.

“You’re alive,” he choked out, his arms around me. “My God, Mark, you’re alive.”

“Get them… get the kids…” I slurred.

I saw Commander Thorne on the beach, standing by a Humvee, his face pale, unreadable. He just watched as the medics swarmed his “lost” cadets.

Then I blacked out.

I woke up to beeping. Bright lights. The smell of antiseptic.

My first thought: Ben.

I tried to sit up. A hand pushed me gently back down. Admiral Lewis. He looked 10 years older. His eyes were red.

“Easy, Mark. You’re okay. You’re at the base hospital. Severe hypothermia, two cracked ribs, and you’ve lost about 80% of the skin on your hands. But you’re okay.”

“Ben…” I rasped. My throat felt like it was full of sand.

“He’s here. He’s right outside. He’s fine. He slept in the waiting room.” Lewis paused. “The cadets. All four are alive. Riley woke up. Harris is in surgery for his leg. They’re all going to make it. Because of you.”

I closed my eyes. Relief washed over me, so total and complete that it left me weak.

“You’re a damned fool, Evans,” Lewis said, his voice thick.

“Part of the job, sir.”

“It’s not your job. Not anymore.” He stood up and walked to the window. The storm had broken. The sun was coming up. “When I was in that desert, bleeding out… I thought I was dead. I was ready to die. Then your voice came over the radio. ‘This is Lone Eagle. I’ve got him. We’re coming home.’ You never gave up. You never give up.”

He turned back to me. “Thorne has been reassigned. Effective immediately. He’s going to be in charge of a supply depot in Alaska.”

I almost smiled. “Sir…”

“Don’t,” he said. “This base… this Navy… we need men like you. But I finally understand. It’s not about the uniform, is it?”

“No, sir. It’s not.”

“The job is yours, Mark. For as long as you want it. But… I’ve taken the liberty of making some changes.” He tossed a new ID card on the bed. It wasn’t a janitor’s. It said ‘Naval Safety Consultant.’ “The pay is triple. The hours are… whatever you want them to be. Your only job,” he said, his eyes serious, “is to be here. And to teach those kids what a real hero looks like.”

He was giving me everything. Security. Flexibility. A purpose. He was giving me Ben.

He opened the door. “I think there’s someone who wants to see you.”

Ben ran in. He scrambled onto the bed, his small arms wrapping around my bandaged neck so tight I winced. “Dad! Dad! You’re a hero!” he yelled, his voice muffled by my hospital gown. “They said you saved everyone! You were like a superhero in the water!”

I held him, breathing in the smell of his hair. The beeping of the monitor, the pain in my ribs, it all faded. This was real. This was the only mission that mattered.

I finally understood. I hadn’t buried Lone Eagle. I had just been saving him. Saving him for what mattered. I didn’t have to be one or the other. I could be both.

I kissed his forehead. “No, buddy,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’m just your dad. That’s all I ever wanted to be.”