They stabilized him, barely, and moved him to recovery. The dog followed like a shadow.
Later, a doctor approached.
“You don’t look like animal control, and you don’t sound like a first-year nurse.”
“I am a nurse,” Ava said. “That’s enough.”
Then the building shook. Rotor blades. A helicopter landed hard. Security rushed, pale.
Minutes later, four men arrived from the elevator. No insignia. No weapons. Quiet authority.
The tallest scanned the hall, eyes locking on the K-9. He stopped.
“Where is she?”
“Restricted area—” the surgeon replied.
“We know,” the man said. “The nurse. The one who spoke to the dog.”
Ava stood, half-shadowed, pretending to chart.
The man froze for a heartbeat, then saluted.
Ava returned it.
“Commander,” he said. “I didn’t know you were alive.”
“Neither did most of the world,” Ava replied.
In the consultation room, the dog waited outside.
“You were declared KIA. Gulf operation. Night ambush. Unit wiped out.”
“I know. I was there.”
“The code you used—that phrase was retired decades ago.”
“It was a recall,” Ava said. “It tells the dog his handler is safe.”
Hours passed. Dawn crept in. Routine returned, but tension lingered.
Then a man in a dark coat appeared—Oversight.
“You slipped. A dog responding to a dead code. A nurse knowing too much.”
“I saved a life,” she said.
“You exposed yourself,” he replied.
The K-9 growled low, guarding the SEAL as he woke. Ava whispered, calm.
The SEAL’s eyes found hers. “Ava,” he rasped.
The hallway went silent.
“You’re safe,” Ava said. “Don’t move.”
“You came back,” he said.
“No,” she whispered. “You did.”
The dog pressed closer, growling at the intruder. Ava understood with cold clarity: six forgotten words had dragged a buried history into the light.
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