Morning at Naval Special Warfare has a particular sound—boots on tile, stainless trays sliding, the low hum of fluorescent lights and the American flag barely stirring in the air-conditioning. He was there before the officers, as always, pushing a mop with the kind of quiet precision you’d expect from a man who folds every shirt the same way.
People called him “sir” only by accident; mostly he was “hey, maintenance,” the single dad who clocked in at 5 a.m., kept his head down, and left in time to sign algebra homework before lights out. He knew which table rocked, which door jammed, which lieutenant said “copy that” when he meant “no.” He knew the room better than anyone who ate in it.
