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Ava closed her eyes for the briefest moment, then returned the salute without hesitation. “Commander.”
His face tightened with something that wasn’t anger. It was shock. “Ma’am,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know you were alive.”
They moved her into a small consultation room, away from the ER and the gawking eyes. The dog followed until the door, then sat outside, watching until the frame blocked his view.
Inside, the Commander sat across from Ava like he was entering a briefing rather than confronting a ghost.
“You were declared KIA,” he said. “Gulf operation. Night ambush. Unit wiped out.”
“I know,” Ava said. “I was there.”
He studied her. “The code you used. That phrase was retired decades ago.”
“It was a recall,” Ava said evenly. “Conditioned response. It tells the dog command authority is present and his handler is safe.”
The Commander’s jaw tightened. “That phrase was retired after your unit.”
Ava didn’t deny it.
Ava stood at once.
In recovery, the dog lifted his head when he saw her and pressed his forehead gently against her thigh. Not aggression. Not fear. Recognition.
“He knows you,” the Commander said softly.
“He knows discipline,” Ava replied. “And loss.”
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