D259.Forty guests. My sister's memorial day barbecue. She raised her glass at her guest of honor. "Don't thank her. She spent her tour in an air-conditioned tent." i kept turning burgers.

By Monday morning, the digital fallout of Maple Street had detonated across social media with the speed of a wildfire.

Unknown to me, one of the guests at Sloan’s barbecue—a disgruntled local real estate agent who had long despised my sister’s social climbing—had recorded Warren Holt’s entire confrontation on her smartphone. She had uploaded the video to TikTok with a blunt caption: Local school board candidate Sloan Vance humiliates her combat nurse sister and gets publicly checked by Gold Star father Warren Holt.

By breakfast time, the video had crossed two million views.

My phone, which I had kept on silent during my night at the farm, was blowing up with thousands of notifications. News outlets from Columbus to Cleveland were calling my personal cell, local newspapers were requesting interviews, and my mother’s landline was reportedly ringing off the hook with furious constituents demanding to know why Sloan mocked a veteran.

I sat at Warren’s kitchen table, scrolling through the comments on my phone while drinking my morning coffee.

“Cancel this terrible woman immediately.”“Thank you for your service, Corporal Vance! Heroes don't need air-conditioned tents!”“Warren Holt is a national treasure.”

Warren walked in from the pantry carrying a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, setting it down in front of me with a gruff, fatherly command: "Eat. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

"I haven't," I admitted, smiling tiredly. "Mr. Holt, have you seen the internet this morning?"

"I don't own a computer, Chloe, and my phone is a flip phone that only receives calls from people I actually like," he grunted, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "Though my neighbor’s kid came over this morning and told me your sister's campaign office is currently surrounded by reporters holding television cameras."

I choked on a piece of toast. "They're at her house?"

"From what I hear, they've been parked on Maple Street since six a.m.," Warren said, a grim, satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out the public doesn't take too kindly to folks who use Gold Star families as political props while shitting on combat nurses."

Right on cue, my cell phone began vibrating violently against the wooden tabletop.

The caller ID flashed: Mother.

I looked at the screen, then at Warren.

"Answer it," Warren advised, taking a bite of his toast. "Might as well enjoy the music."

I swiped the green button and brought the phone to my ear.

"Chloe! Chloe, thank God!" My mother’s voice shrieked through the speaker, sounding hysterical, exhausted, and on the verge of a total nervous breakdown. "Where are you?! You need to come home right now! There are reporters outside! They're calling Sloan a monster on the local news! Her campaign manager just resigned, and the school board committee called an emergency meeting to drop her endorsement!"

"I'm not coming home, Mom," I said calmly. "And I don't live on Maple Street anymore, remember? You uninvited me yesterday."

"Chloe, don't be ridiculous!" Mom sobbed, her voice cracking. "We're family! You can't just let your sister get destroyed like this! You have a platform now—you can go on television, you can tell them it was all just a silly family misunderstanding, you can clear Sloan's name!"

"Clear her name?" I repeated, my voice hardening. "Mom, Sloan stood in front of forty people and mocked my service. She called me a clerk in an air-conditioned tent. She used Warren Holt as a prop. I’m not lying for her, and I’m certainly not going to bail her out of a mess she created."

"You selfish, ungrateful bitch!" Mom shrieked, instantly dropping the maternal act the moment she realized she couldn't manipulate me. "You've always hated your sister! You couldn't stand to see her succeed, so you had to ruin her life just to feed your own pathetic ego!"

"Goodbye, Mom," I said.

I tapped the red button, ending the call, and then, with deliberate satisfaction, I blocked her number.

I looked up at Warren. He was watching me with a warm, approving glint in his tired eyes.

"Feel good?" he asked.

"Like I just dropped a fifty-pound ruck sack," I smiled.

"Good," Warren said, standing up and grabbing his cane. "Now, come outside. The spring calves were born yesterday in the north pasture, and I need someone with a steady hand to help tag them. Figured a combat nurse ought to be qualified for livestock management."