Chapter 2 - Dusting Off the Canvas and the Uniform
That evening, as the shadows lengthened across my living room floor, I walked down the narrow hallway to my guest bedroom. At the foot of the bed sat an old, scuffed metal Navy footlocker—the kind every operator carries across continents. The familiar, comforting scent of heavy canvas, gun oil, and old salt air rose instantly into the air the moment I popped the heavy brass latches.
Inside lay my service dress whites, my class-A uniform jacket, a neat row of hard-earned campaign medals, and the tightly folded American flag that belonged to my closest teammate, Lewis, who never made it back from our final tour.
Knox walked into the bedroom, his claws clicking softly against the hardwood floor, and watched me lift the heavy wool jacket from its resting place. The gold insignia caught the dim light of the bedside lamp.
"They’re going to see who I became," I whispered softly to the dog, running my fingers over the embroidered warfare pin on my chest.
Before heading to the courthouse the next morning, I drove out to my grandfather’s old farmhouse to check the grounds. The place looked desperately sad. The massive old oak tree in the front yard was slowly dying from blight, peeling white paint hung in curling strips from the wooden siding, and the front porch sagged heavily on one side. But as I stood there in the overgrown grass, I could still vividly picture my grandfather building those very walls with his own calloused hands, whistling old folk tunes while I sat on a bucket handing him nails.
My parents hadn't built a single inch of this place. They hadn't watered the grass, they hadn't repaired the roof when hurricanes swept through the county, and they certainly hadn't shed a tear for the history buried in its soil. They just saw land value rising, smelled easy money, and assumed their estranged daughter was too broken or distant to fight back.
The next morning, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror and pinned every single medal and ribbon where it rightfully belonged. My class-A jacket fit noticeably tighter across the shoulders than it did five years ago, and my injured knee flared up with a sharp, burning protest every time I tried to stand completely straight. But as I settled the weight of the jacket across my back, it didn't feel uncomfortable.
It felt earned. Every single thread was backed by sweat, blood, and survival.
When I pulled up to the Portsmouth Family and Civil Court parking lot, the autumn air was crisp. As I walked up the wide stone steps in full dress uniform, my boots clicking rhythmically against the concrete, even an older courthouse janitor sweeping the landing stopped in his tracks, took one look at my ribbons, and quietly stepped aside, touching the brim of his cap.
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"Morning, Commander," he murmured respectfully.
I gave him a crisp nod and walked through the heavy oak doors into the Hall of Justice.
