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“Final boarding call for Flight 218 to Denver.”
He looked at the man again – the way he adjusted the duffel, the quiet frustration in his eyes, the faded SEAL trident embroidered on his cap.
Before he could think twice, Leo stood up.
“Sir, do you need help?” he asked.
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The soldier blinked, surprised. “Oh – I’m fine, son. I just need to get to Gate 31. My brother’s waiting there. Haven’t seen him since the hospital.”
Gate 31 was halfway across the terminal. Leo glanced toward his own gate. The jet bridge door was closing.
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“I can take you,” he said quickly.
The soldier tried to protest, but Leo was already behind the wheelchair, pushing through the crowd. Past families, kiosks, and glowing screens. His sneakers squeaked against the polished floor.
When they reached Gate 31, a man in uniform turned – froze – and then ran forward. He dropped his coffee, kneeling beside the wheelchair, his voice breaking.
