“That Army dame was a Delta Force soldier.”
“They’re called operators,” he tossed aside his book and released the straps of his prosthetic arm.
Patrick filed that away for later use. “Worked with dogs, like you. Maybe that explains the way Rip reacted to her.”
“Maybe… No dog ever reacted to me that way.”
“Well, if you took a shower once in a while.”
Stan stopped working on his arm for a moment to give Patrick the finger. Then he got the arm off and slid it under the edge of the bunk. He unrolled the protective sock off the odd stump that Patrick had never quite grown used to, so he looked away. It seemed politer to do so.
“Said she was a handler. Until she lost her dog.” Patrick decided his grass-stained jeans were past redemption and chucked them in the laundry pile. However, the sh
