"I'm documenting this, because the crew deserves to know that we've got someone working the serving line who's clearly passed his expiration date. Look at those hands. They're shaking. You're a liability."
Thomas's hands were not shaking. But Blake's gesture was deliberate and cruel.
The gathered sailors watched in stunned silence, a mixture of secondhand embarrassment and growing anger on their faces.
Blake turned to address the small crowd that had formed. "This is what happens when standards drop, people. We need sharp minds. We need focus. Not this."
As Blake gestured broadly, his hand swept past Thomas's shoulder, briefly making contact with the faded patch sewn onto his work shirt, just beneath the apron strap.
It was a small circular design, crudely stitched by hand, showing a stylized anchor wrapped in rope, with wings extending from the sides. The colors were muted greens and browns, faded nearly to gray.
To Blake, it looked like something bought at a surplus store. Meaningless decoration.
But to Thomas, the contact was a jolt.
For a fraction of a second, the fluorescent lights of the galley dissolved.
He was standing on the pitching deck of a destroyer in the middle of a hurricane, the air thick with salt spray and the metallic smell of fear. The year was 1962, and the world was balanced on the edge of nuclear war.
He was holding a sextant with shaking hands, not from age, but from exhaustion and terror, trying to navigate through a storm that had killed the ship's radar and radio.
The patch on his shoulder, freshly sewn by lamplight in a storage bay, was his promise to himself. He would bring them home, even if the Navy thought they were already dead.
The memory lasted less than a second.
Thomas blinked, and the mess deck returned. Blake was still standing there, his expression smug, his phone still raised.