Garrett looked at his son—his twelve-year-old son, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s stubborn chin. He thought about all the things he had wanted to protect Milo from. All the darkness he had tried to keep at bay.
“Because I didn’t want you to think that violence was the answer,” Garrett said. “Because I wanted you to grow up kind. Because I promised your mom.”
Milo’s eyes filled with tears. “I miss her.”
“I miss her too.”
They sat in silence for a long moment.
Then Milo said, “Bryce hurt me. He threw me down and he laughed. And you stopped him.”
“Yes.”
“Does that make you a fighter?”
Garrett thought about it.
“It makes me a father,” he said. “And sometimes, being a father means doing things you don’t want to do. It means standing up for your kid, even if it means the whole world sees you.”
Milo nodded slowly.
“I’m glad you’re my dad,” he said.
Garrett’s throat tightened. “I’m glad you’re my son.”
---
The next morning, Garrett woke to a knock on the hospital room door.
He had slept in the chair, his neck stiff, his back aching. Milo was still asleep, his shoulder wrapped in a sling, his face peaceful.
Garrett stood and opened the door.
A man in a dark suit stood in the hallway. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped gray hair and eyes that missed nothing.
“Sergeant Danner,” the man said.
Garrett didn’t respond.
“My name is Colonel James Hargrove. I’m with the Department of Defense.” He held up an ID card. “I need to speak with you about the events of last night.”
Garrett stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.
“I’m not a sergeant anymore,” he said. “I’m a civilian.”
“Technically, yes,” Hargrove said. “But your service record tells a different story. Twelve years in special operations. Four deployments to classified theaters. Two Silver Stars. One Distinguished Service Cross.” He paused. “And a discharge that was never fully explained.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”
“I want to know why a man with your training just beat a civilian unconscious in front of a live camera.”
“He hurt my son.”
“I’m aware. The footage is everywhere. So is your face. So are your tattoos.” Hargrove’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”
“I defended my child.”