At a quiet roadside diner, a three-year-old girl curled her tiny hand into an S.O.S. signal. A soldier, seated a few booths away, spotted and casually offered her a piece of candy.

The late-day buzz inside Miller’s Diner was a mixture of clattering silverware and muted conversations.

Families organzied booths, truckers lingered over coffee, and an aging jukebox droned faintly in the corner. Sergeant Daniel Whitmore, just back from deployment, sat at the counter, absentmindedly stirring his black coffee. His disciplined gaze was enclosed by years of training caught a detail across the room that most would miss.

A little girl, barely three years old, sat beside a man who loudly introduced himself to the waitress as her father. Her pale face framed by neat pigtails, she seemed skittish, her eyes darting nervously around. Then, suddenly, she raised one small hand, tucked her thumb into her palm, and closed her fingers over it and the internationally recognized distress signal. Daniel’s pulse spiked, but he forced his expression to stay neutral.

He swiveled slightly on his stool, pretending to dig into his pocket. With a calm smile, he pulled out a piece of butterscotch candy and extended it toward her.

“Hi there, sweetheart. Want some candy?”Continue reading…