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In the third row of the bleachers, a man in a torn jacket stood up. His boots were held together with silver duct tape, and his face was etched with the lines of a life lived on the margins. Cole Reeves, once known by the call sign “Nomad,” hadn’t focused on much besides survival for four years. But as his amber eyes locked onto the struggling Malinois, the fog of homelessness lifted. He stepped over the barrier and walked onto the gravel.
Three weeks earlier, Cole had been huddled under the Jefferson Bridge, protecting a backpack that held the only remnants of his former life: a K-9 manual, a photo of his old partner Titan, and an ultrasonic whistle. He was a ghost in his own city until his friend Miguel, a former army medic, convinced him to attend the Lejeune veteran demonstration—mostly for the promise of a hot meal. Cole hadn’t heard his call sign in years; he didn’t think he deserved to ever hear it again.
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