“KIA… Vietnam?” he breathed.

Sarah nodded.

“Your father?” he managed.

Another nod.

Every eye in the room stayed locked on them. The hum of the ventilation system became deafening in the stillness.

Webb swallowed hard. “I… didn’t know.”

Before Sarah could respond, the mess hall door opened.

Colonel Raymond Foster, 81 years old and still walking with the posture of a man who had spent a lifetime in uniform, stepped inside. He came for coffee—and stopped dead at the sight of Webb holding dog tags with trembling hands.

“What’s going on here, Sergeant?”