The late-afternoon heat in Riverside, Montana, felt like it could melt the pavement. The air shimmered over cracked asphalt and faded shop signs, the kind of small-town summer where even the breeze seemed too tired to blow.
Jake Miller, forty-five, walked with the deliberate stride of a man who had marched through deserts and gunfire. His loyal German Shepherd, Duke, padded beside him—alert, silent, every movement calculated. Since retiring from the Marines, Jake had been surviving on odd jobs and quiet routines. His wife, Anna, had left years ago, worn down by battles she couldn’t see but he still fought every night in his dreams. They never had children—something Jake didn’t talk about—but Duke had filled that hollow place in his life.
That day, as the sun hammered down, Duke suddenly froze. Ears up. A low growl rolled from his chest before he lunged toward the back alley of Mel’s Diner. Jake followed, instincts snapping to life.
