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The harsh morning light of late October filters through the high windows of General Pershing Veterans’ Hospital, illuminating dust motes above Alma Cox’s desk. Alma works with furious precision, sweeping through the patient lounge and sweeping up every paperbound copy of James Jones’s From Here to Eternity she can find.
"Smut," she mutters under her breath, slapping three volumes against her ribs. "Pure, unadulterated filth."
Her crusade against modern coarseness only intensifies an hour later when a local dance studio offers its instructresses to host a dance night. Alma marches straight into the administrative wing, her leather heels clicking against linoleum.
"Mr. D'Angelo, I must protest," Alma says, resting her hands flat on his desk. "Bringing a flock of young, unmarried women into a facility full of restless, recovering men is a recipe for absolute moral chaos."
Mike D’Angelo leans back in his swiveling chair, flashing an easygoing smile. "Oh, calm down, Alma. It’s good for morale. Public relations loves this kind of local charity."
"Morale is one thing, Mike, but—"
"The decision is made, Alma," D’Angelo cuts in smoothly, waving a manicured hand. "Let the boys have a little fun."
Observing her flustered exit from down the hall, John Mulcahy steps quietly into Alma’s office a few minutes later. Though he no longer wears the collar—having traded the priesthood for a quiet, secret devotion to the man currently organizing chart files down the corridor—his pastoral instinct remains.
"Miss Cox?" John asks softly, sitting across from her desk. "You seem terribly carrying the weight of the world today."
Alma’s rigid composure cracks. Her hands tremble as she clutches a pen. "He doesn't listen to me, John. I try so hard to keep this place respectable, to keep *him* looking good... and he just brushes me aside." She looks up, her eyes bright with sudden, painful tears. "I’m in love with him, John. God help me, I am so hopelessly in love with Mike, and he doesn't see me at all."
John listens with gentle empathy, his own heart aching with the familiar weight of hidden affection. "Unspoken love is a heavy cross to bear, Alma," he offers softly, keeping his own secret close to his chest. "But you cannot measure your worth by how clearly others see you."
Out in the bustling hallway, Dr. Bob Pfeiffer leans casually against the reception counter, flashing a slick smile at Alma’s clerk. "You know, Bonnie, a sweet girl like you shouldn't be spending Halloween behind a tall stack of files. How about you and I test out the dance floor early?"
Bonnie Hornback barely glances at him, her eyes fixed instead on Max Klinger, who is wheeling a supply gurney past the desk. "No thank you, Dr. Pfeiffer. I'm holding out for a real gentleman."
As Pfeiffer wanders off with a bitter huff, Bonnie slides over to Max. "You know, Max... if you need a partner for the dance tonight, I happen to be available."
Max stops the gurney, offering her a warm, infinitely gentle smile. "That’s mighty sweet of you, Bonnie, really. But I’m a thoroughly taken man. My heart belongs strictly to my wife."
Bonnie sighs sympathetically, resting a hand on her heart. "It’s so romantic, Max. The way you stayed behind in Korea for Soon-Lee, searching for her family... you're a real hero."
A few yards away, carrying a stack of fresh linens, John hears the exchange. A cold, familiar ache settles in his chest. He understands why the cover story is necessary—why the world of 1953 cannot know that Father O’Reily married them in a hushed, secret ceremony right before the 4077th dissolved, or that John resigned from the cloth the very next day to build a life with Max. He knows the lie keeps Max safe and protects their quiet home on the edge of town. Yet hearing the man he loves spoken of as another's husband still stings with a quiet grief.
Max turns, catching John’s eye across the corridor. The soft, tender look Max sends him—a silent message of absolute devotion—instantly washes away the chill in John's heart. Max passes by him, brushing his shoulder against John's just closely enough to be intentional.
"Hang in there, Johnny," Max murmurs under his breath, barely moving his lips as he adjusts a box on the gurney. "It's always you. Only you."
John catches his breath, a fleeting smile breaking across his face. "Always, Max," he whispers back.
Rebuffed, Dr. Pfeiffer quickly redirects his attentions toward one of the newly arrived dance instructresses lingering near the lobby. "You know," Pfeiffer purrs, leaning close to a striking brunette, "the main floor is so pedestrian. Let me give you a private tour of our specialized surgical suites."
"Oh? Is that allowed, Doctor?" she giggles.
"For you? Absolutely."
Pfeiffer guides her down the quiet, dimmed corridors of the surgical wing, slipping through the double doors of an unused operating room. Wrapped in the shadowy quiet, surrounded by draped equipment, he pulls her close into a heavy embrace.
A moment later, Alma pushes through the doors, clipboard in hand, making her final rounds. "Dr. Pfeiffer, have you seen—"
She stops dead in her tracks. The sight of the physician tangled up with the instructress under the cold glare of the surgical lamp shatters the hospital's frail illusion of propriety, leaving Alma frozen in place.