Davis pressed the receiver so hard against his ear that the black plastic creaked under his damp fingers.
For three rings, nothing happened except the kitchen noise growing louder behind him, steam hissing like something impatient.
Then a voice answered, low, rough, and awake in a way that made Davis straighten without thinking.
“Master Chief Thorne’s office.”
Davis swallowed, suddenly aware of how young he sounded, how thin his courage felt inside his chest.
“Seaman Apprentice Davis, mess hall kitchen, sir. There’s a situation out here with an elderly visitor.”
There was no immediate reply, only the faint scrape of a chair and the soft click of a pen being set down.
“What kind of situation?”
