Thomas Reed entered the Department of Veterans Affairs claims office at 9:17 on a clear Tuesday morning.
He came alone.
No attorney walked beside him. No television crew waited outside. He carried no protest sign, no folder stuffed with medical records, and no list of demands prepared by an advocacy organization.
He wore a carefully pressed navy suit, an old military tie, and polished black shoes that moved slowly across the tile floor. A small service pin rested on his lapel.
In both hands, he carried a yellowed envelope.
The paper had softened with age. Its corners were rounded, its government stamps had faded almost beyond recognition, and the handwritten date across the front remained dark enough to read.
1968.
People in the waiting room barely looked up.
Old veterans came through those doors every day. Some arrived in wheelchairs. Some carried oxygen tanks. Others brought boxes of records documenting illnesses, injuries, and appeals that had followed them for decades.
Thomas took a number from the machine.
B-47.
He sat beneath a poster promising that no veteran would be forgotten.
Then he waited.
At 10:36, a light above Window Four flashed.
B-47
Thomas stood, buttoned his jacket, and approached the counter.
Daniel Mercer was the claims agent behind the glass.
He was thirty-eight years old and twelve minutes behind schedule. His computer had frozen twice that morning, one veteran had shouted at him over a delayed examination, and another case had been returned because a doctor forgot to sign the final page.
Daniel was not cruel.