In a world often marked by division and uncertainty, stories of selflessness remind us of the extraordinary capacity for human kindness. One such story unfolded when an 8-year-old boy, suddenly struck by liver failure, found hope in the most unexpected place—a stranger’s heart.
The boy’s condition was critical, and time was running out. His family faced the unimaginable fear of losing him, with no immediate donor available. That’s when a nurse, someone he had never met before, stepped forward. Without hesitation, she offered a part of herself—literally—by donating a portion of her own liver.
The surgery was complex, but successful. Today, both the nurse and the boy carry scars on their bodies, visible reminders of a bond forged through courage and compassion. For the nurse, her shirt reads “DONATE LIFE,” a message that transcends words. For the boy, his smile tells the story of a second chance at childhood.
This act of generosity is more than a medical miracle—it’s a testament to the power of empathy. Organ donation is not just about saving lives; it’s about restoring hope, reuniting families, and proving that strangers can become heroes.
The nurse’s sacrifice highlights the importance of awareness around organ donation. Thousands of people worldwide wait for transplants every year, and many never receive them. By choosing to register as donors, ordinary people can become extraordinary lifesavers.
As we reflect on this story, let it serve as a reminder: compassion knows no boundaries. One person’s decision can ripple outward, changing the course of another’s life forever.
Outside, the sun sliced through the haze of early fall, scattering golden light across the sprawling school grounds.
Long shadows stretched lazily over the manicured lawns, shifting as the day slowly edged toward afternoon. The air carried the familiar scent of wet leaves, mingling with the faint aroma of chalk dust from the classrooms inside.
A crisp breeze stirred, tugging at the edges of fallen leaves, sending them skittering across the asphalt walkways. Against this backdrop of calm and seasonal beauty, a solitary figure stood at the edge of the playground, silhouetted in the sunlight.
Straight as a pine, still as the stone monuments he had once stood beside in foreign lands, the man radiated a quiet authority that seemed to demand notice without a single word spoken.
His uniform, meticulously pressed, bore insignias gleaming in the sunlight. Each badge, each stripe told the story of service, discipline, and sacrifice. Yet, beneath the polished exterior was a man who had known both the rigors of military life and the fragile nuances of human emotion.
Though he remained silent, a presence both commanding and protective emanated from him, an unspoken promise that those under his watch would be defended.
In this serene moment outside Room 302, he appeared almost statuesque, a living guardian in a world that often forgot the quiet strength of those who serve.
The soldier was Alex Miller, the older brother of Leo Miller, and fresh from a long deployment overseas. Returning to civilian life had never been easy for him.
The cadence of daily existence—traffic noises, crowded hallways, and the seemingly trivial dramas of schoolchildren—felt distant, almost alien, compared to the life-and-death decisions that had marked the past months.
Yet, Alex had returned with a singular purpose: to reconnect with his family, to surprise Leo, to share a simple lunch, and perhaps to observe the small universe his younger brother inhabited, trying to understand the world that had gone on while he was away.
What he found instead was chaos. Inside Room 302, a quiet horror had unfolded—one of those moments that linger long after the physical scene has dissipated.
Misunderstanding, ignorance, and the untempered use of authority had converged, leaving a young boy humiliated in front of his peers.
The weight of embarrassment bore down on Leo’s small frame. His shoulders hunched instinctively, not just to hide the prosthetic that had made him the target, but to shield himself from the sting of judgment.
Every glance, every whispered comment, every stifled snicker seemed magnified, echoing in his mind like a drumbeat of shame.
His classmates, trapped between empathy and the instinctive urge to comply with authority, froze. Some eyes mirrored horror; others softened with sympathy, but no one dared challenge the teacher in that moment.
The tension was palpable, a mixture of fear, confusion, and helplessness. It was the kind of silence that only grows heavy with anticipation, the kind that makes even the faintest sound feel like a jolt of electricity.
Then, as if summoned by the unspoken plea for justice, Alex moved. The door to Room 302 swung open, the sudden draft sending papers fluttering and drawing a chorus of startled gasps.
His boots, polished to a reflective sheen, barely whispered against the linoleum, yet each step carried the gravitas of experience and purpose.
The teacher, Mrs. Gable, spun toward the interruption, her face registering shock, then mild irritation, then finally the recognition that the disruption could not simply be dismissed.
“Excuse me,” Alex said, his voice calm, measured, but undeniably firm. It was a voice that brokered no argument, a voice that had once been used to command troops and maintain order in chaotic circumstances. “I believe you owe my brother an apology.”
The classroom held its collective breath. Anticipation hummed in the air, crackling like static. The usual chatter, the subtle shuffling of feet, the nervous coughs—everything ceased.
In that moment, Alex’s presence rewrote the rules of the room. Mrs. Gable’s authority, once seemingly unassailable, was questioned not through confrontation but through the sheer weight of silent, righteous insistence.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” she managed, her voice trembling slightly as she attempted to regain control of the situation. Her eyes darted to the students, searching for some sign of support, but the room’s collective attention was fixed entirely on the imposing figure of Alex.
“I’m Leo’s brother,” he said evenly, letting the words settle, allowing their significance to take root. “And I don’t see why his having a prosthetic is an issue in a learning environment. Respect should be given, not earned through silent compliance.”
For a moment, the air was taut with tension. The students, many of whom had watched the entire episode unfold, felt a ripple of courage wash through them.
One by one, their postures shifted subtly, a quiet acknowledgment of solidarity. The teacher, confronted not only with Alex’s presence but with the undeniable moral clarity of his words, faltered. Her usual rigidity, the armor she wore so effortlessly, cracked just enough to reveal uncertainty.
Alex’s gaze softened, not for Leo alone, but for the entire room. “This isn’t just about my brother,” he continued, voice low but carrying effortlessly.
“It’s about understanding. It’s about creating a space where mistakes are learning opportunities, where differences are respected, and where no one is made to feel less than because of something they cannot control.”
His words, carefully measured and sincere, rippled across the classroom. The students felt the shift. They had been trained, socialized, conditioned to respect authority without question, but this—this was different.
It was not rebellion; it was clarity. It was the voice of someone who had faced far more dangerous situations, someone whose understanding of discipline was tempered by empathy, someone who knew that true leadership was about protection and respect, not fear and humiliation.
Mrs. Gable opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. For the first time that day, she hesitated, her authority not diminished but transformed into a space of reflection.
The words hung between them, a bridge over the turmoil that had erupted in the classroom. The silence that followed was not empty; it was charged, pregnant with the possibility of understanding, of reconciliation.
Leo, still standing at his desk, felt a wave of relief wash over him. The tension that had coiled tightly in his chest began to unravel, replaced by a burgeoning sense of security.
His brother’s presence, his calm insistence on fairness, had shifted the entire dynamic of the room. The laughter, the sneers, the judgment—all of it faded into the background. For the first time that day, Leo felt seen, protected, and validated.
Alex didn’t stop there. He stepped fully into the room, his boots clicking with authority on the tile floor, and looked around at the students. “You all have a choice every day,” he said, his tone gentle yet unwavering.
“You can follow blindly, or you can stand for what’s right, even in small ways. Today, my brother was unfairly treated, but tomorrow, any one of you could face something similar. Respect each other. Support each other. That’s the lesson here.”
The impact was immediate. Heads lifted, shoulders straightened, and a quiet murmur of understanding passed through the students.
No longer just witnesses, they became participants in a moment of moral clarity. Alex’s words had planted a seed—one that would grow in small, often unseen ways over time, shaping the character of each child in the room.
Mrs. Gable finally spoke, her voice subdued, lacking its earlier forceful edge. “I… I apologize, Leo,” she said, her words hesitant but sincere. “That was unfair, and I let my judgment cloud my actions.”
The room exhaled collectively, the tension breaking like a dam. Alex nodded once, a simple gesture of acknowledgment, before turning to Leo. “You okay, little brother?” he asked softly, placing a reassuring hand on Leo’s shoulder.
Leo nodded, a shy smile breaking through the remnants of his embarrassment. “Thanks, Alex,” he murmured, his voice barely audible but carrying the weight of gratitude and relief.
As the day moved forward, the classroom’s energy shifted. Where there had been fear and tension, there was now a cautious optimism, a sense that fairness and understanding could indeed prevail.
Students began to whisper to one another, sharing reflections on the importance of empathy, the courage to speak up, and the power of standing together in the face of injustice.
Outside, the sun continued its slow descent, the long shadows of autumn stretching further across the playground. Alex lingered at the doorway, a silent sentinel, observing not just his brother but the small, unfolding microcosm of life inside Room 302.
He understood, better than anyone, that battles could be fought in many arenas—not just on distant shores in foreign lands, but here, in hallways and classrooms, where courage and compassion were sometimes just as vital.
In that quiet, sunlit moment, a subtle transformation had occurred. A classroom, a teacher, a young boy, and his peers had witnessed the power of intervention, the importance of advocacy, and the profound difference a single, principled voice could make.
For Leo, for his classmates, and for the teacher who had faltered, the lesson would linger far beyond the walls of Room 302: authority is best exercised with empathy, dignity is unshakable when supported, and courage can manifest in the quietest of acts.
Alex Miller’s presence that day, though brief, became a defining memory—not just for Leo but for all who witnessed it.
A reminder that true strength combines firmness with compassion, that protection and guidance are inseparable, and that standing up for what is right, even in small ways, can alter the trajectory of someone’s life.
As the school bell rang and students filed out of the classroom, the warmth of autumn sunlight still pouring through the windows, Leo felt a renewed sense of belonging and validation.
The day’s earlier humiliation had been replaced with hope, a reminder that he was not alone. His brother’s intervention had transformed a moment of fear into a moment of growth, teaching a lesson that would echo in the classroom for years to come.
And outside, Alex stood quietly, watching, content in the knowledge that sometimes, the most important battles are not fought with weapons or strategy, but with presence, conviction, and the unwavering insistence that every child deserves respect and dignity
In 2015, Josh Marshall proved that a father’s love knows no limits. His young son Gabriel was fighting anaplastic astrocytoma, a rare and aggressive brain tumor. After surgery and chemotherapy, Gabriel was left with a large scar and the loss of his hair—marks that made him feel different and alone.
Josh refused to let his boy carry that weight by himself. He shaved his own head and had Gabriel’s scar tattooed onto his scalp. His message was simple: “If people stare, they’ll stare at both of us.”
That powerful act of solidarity touched millions. A photo of father and son went viral, winning the 2016 #BestBaldDad contest and inspiring families around the world.
Josh’s gesture was more than a tattoo—it was a promise. A promise that Gabriel would never face the world alone. Their story reminds us that true strength is not found in appearances, but in love, courage, and the bonds that hold us together.
Turning Point USA, formed with the vision of the late Charlie Kirk, had planned an alternate halftime spectacle during the Super Bowl. However, not everything went smoothly on game day.
Looking to offer viewers a different experience from the official NFL halftime show with Puerto Rican artist Bad Bunny, the organization set up its own “All-American Halftime Show.” This was meant as a choice for those preferring an alternative to Bad Bunny’s performance.
Unexpectedly, right before the New England Patriots and Seattle Seahawks took to the field on February 8, a technical hiccup hindered the rival halftime broadcast.
Understanding the Alternative Show’s Purpose
The initiative stemmed from reactions in conservative circles regarding the NFL’s decision to give Bad Bunny the halftime spotlight. His involvement sparked criticism among some Republican voices.\
The halftime show, while an unpaid gig, can be a significant platform for artists, propelling them into broader recognition.
Bad Bunny, or Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, has been known to express critical views on the former U.S. president, including in his song “Nuevayol,” which mimicked Trump’s voice. The parody conveys a message of apology to immigrants, emphasizing the nation’s reliance on them.
This likely means Trump, based on his prior statements, did not watch Bad Bunny’s show. He had previously told the New York Post his disapproval, calling the selection divisive.
Turning Point USA endeavored to draw viewers to their celebration with artists like Kid Rock, Brantley Gilbert, Lee Brice, and Gabby Barrett, promoting themes of ‘faith, family, and freedom’.
Not the kind that squishes between your boots and washes off later.
This mud bit.
It crept through denim and wool and skin, stealing warmth inch by inch.
Erin stopped feeling her toes ten minutes ago.
Didn’t matter.
She wasn’t moving.
Because the mare wasn’t moving either.
The back pen had turned into a swamp after days of rain and sleet. Hoof prints filled with black water. Straw dissolved into sludge. Every step made a sucking sound, like the earth trying to pull you under.
And in the middle of it all—
The horse lay on her side.
Too thin.
Too still.
Ribs sharp against hide. Hips like corners. Raw sores along her shoulders where bone had pressed into frozen ground for hours.
Her breath came rough and shallow, each inhale scraping like sandpaper.
Erin slid down beside her, mud soaking through to her thighs, then her hips.
The look animals get when they’re deciding whether it’s worth fighting anymore.
“Hey… hey, girl,” she whispered, voice already breaking.
The mare’s eye rolled weakly toward her.
Cloudy.
Tired.
Still aware.
Still there.
That was enough.
Erin had called the vet an hour ago.
Signal crackling.
Wind howling.
“Shock,” the vet said through the phone. “She’s hypothermic. Keep her warm. Keep her upright if you can. Talk to her. Don’t let her shut down. I’m on my way.”
Don’t let her shut down.
Like you could just ask life to stay.
Like you could bargain with it.
Erin slipped off one glove and pressed her bare hand against the mare’s neck.
Cold.
Too cold.
“Stay with me,” she murmured. “You hear me? Don’t you quit on me.”
The mare tried to lift her head.
Couldn’t.
It dropped back into the mud with a soft thud.
Something inside Erin cracked.
“Okay. Okay—hold on.”
She scooted closer, ignoring the mud soaking through everything, and slid her arms under the mare’s heavy head.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Like lifting glass.
She pulled the head into her lap.
The weight surprised her.
Heavy.
But fragile at the same time.
The mare let out the softest sigh.
Not pain.
Relief.
Like she’d been waiting for that.
“Oh… sweetheart,” Erin breathed.
Her jacket was soaked. Her knees numb. But the mare’s cheek pressed into her stomach like she was searching for warmth.
So Erin wrapped both arms around her face.
Shielding.
Holding.
Like you’d hold a child.
“I know,” she whispered into the wet mane. “I know it hurts. I know.”
Her words fogged in the air.
The mare’s breath came in little bursts against her sleeve.
For a second—just one second—the tension left the animal’s body.
Muscles unclenched.
Jaw relaxed.
Trust.
Just that simple, terrifying trust.
Erin felt tears mixing with rain and dirt on her cheeks.
“You’re okay,” she said softly. “Lean on me. I’ve got you. All of you. Just lean.”
And the mare did.
All that weight.
All that quiet surrender.
Right into her.
Like Erin was the only solid thing left in the world.
In the distance, barn lights flickered. Someone shouted instructions. A truck engine rumbled closer.
The help was coming.
But time felt thin.
Fragile.
The kind that snaps without warning.
“Stay awake,” Erin murmured. “Stay with me. Breathe. That’s it. Just breathe.”
The mare’s eyelids fluttered.
Slow.
Heavy.
Closing.
“Hey—no, no. Not yet,” Erin said quickly, rubbing the cold neck. “Look at me, girl. You’re not doing this alone. You hear me? Not alone.”
She started talking about nothing.
Everything.
The way you talk to someone you’re scared to lose.
“You remember the spring grass? You love that stuff. You’re gonna be mad if you miss it. And Daisy still steals your feed bucket. You gotta come yell at her for me, okay?”
Her voice wobbled.
“But you don’t get to quit. Not tonight.”
The mare’s ear twitched.
Small.
But there.
“Good girl,” Erin breathed. “That’s my girl.”
Mud seeped into her sleeves.
Cold crawled up her spine.
Her legs trembled from kneeling so long.
Didn’t matter.
If this horse had to fight through the dark—
She wouldn’t do it alone.
Erin tightened her arms, making a little shelter with her body, blocking the wind with her back.
Her heartbeat thudded hard.
Steady.
She hoped the mare could feel it.
Two rhythms.
Trying to sync.
Trying to stay.
Finally, headlights spilled across the pen.
Boots splashed through mud.
“Where is she?”
“Here!” Erin called, voice raw.
The vet slid in beside them, already unpacking supplies. IV bag. Blankets. Hands moving fast.
But Erin didn’t let go.
Not yet.
Not until she felt that pulse under her palm.
Faint.
But still there.
Still fighting.
She pressed her forehead gently against the mare’s.
“You did good,” she whispered. “You stayed. I knew you would.”
The mare’s breath warmed her wrist.
Soft.
Alive.
And for that moment, in the coldest, muddiest corner of the farm, with sirens of wind and engines and shouted orders all around—
There was only this:
One woman.
One exhausted horse.
And the stubborn, fragile decision to keep breathing together.
Around 250 members of the Iowa National Guard are returning homeWednesday after a nine month deployment in the Middle East.
Families and friends in Des Moines and Sioux City are preparing to welcome our heroes home, as KCCI reports.
Andy Newton’s wife, Staff Sgt. Patricia Newton, has been overseas supporting Operation Inherent Resolve.
It’s a sacrifice soldiers and their families know they’ll have to make when they join the Guard. But a year-long deployment hits a little differently when you have a little one at home.
Newton, who served in the Iowa Guard for over a decade, has been pulling dad and mom duty caring for their three-year-old daughter Grace.
Andy will get to embrace Patricia again, and watch as Grace reunites with her mother.
“It’s all about our daughter at this point,” he told KCCI. ”I can’t wait to see her reaction.”
It’s not lost on Andy how lucky he is to have Patricia back. Especially after the tragic loss of two fellow members during her deployment.
“Getting these days back is a huge relief,” Newton shared.
The Iowa National Guard says Sioux City’s ceremony will be at 1:45 p.m. at Ascension FBO Network in the Sioux City Airport.
Des Moines will have two flights in, with 94 soldiers at 3:30 p.m. and 51 at 5 p.m. at the 132d Air Wing of the Des Moines International Airport.
The public is welcome to attend but must bring ID to clear through security.
A jogger suffered a sudden heart attack and collapsed on a trail running parallel to railroad tracks. Unconscious, he rolled down an embankment and landed on the tracks as a train approached slowly in the distance.
A stray pit bull living near the railroad witnessed the man fall. The dog, later named Hero, ran to the unconscious jogger and grabbed his jacket with its teeth.
Hero desperately dragged the 180-pound man away from the tracks. Using all its strength, it pulled the man bit by bit off the rails. Surveillance footage shows Hero straining with all its might as the train blew its horn and drew closer.
At the last possible second, Hero pulled the man clear of the tracks. The train rushed past. Afterwards, Hero lay beside the man, licking his face until he regained consciousness a few minutes later.
While being treated at the hospital, the jogger learned that Hero was a stray dog abandoned months earlier. He immediately adopted Hero, saying the dog had given him a second chance at life.
Animal control officers stated that Hero’s actions were deliberate and heroic. The dog risked being hit by the train to save a complete stranger, displaying courage and compassion that put those who abandoned it to shame.
Canada is in mourning following a tragic shooting in the small town of Tumbler Ridge, British Columbia, where nine people were killed and at least 25 others injured on Wednesday.
The deadly attacks, which took place at both a secondary school and a nearby home, mark one of the nation’s deadliest shootings in decades.
Six victims were found dead inside Tumbler Ridge Secondary School on Tuesday, February 10, with a seventh dying en route to the hospital.
Authorities also discovered the suspected shooter at the school, who appeared to have died from a self-inflicted injury. Two additional victims were found at a nearby residence, which police believe is connected to the attacks.
Tumbler Ridge, a remote community of just 2,400 people located roughly 415 miles north of Vancouver, is home to a secondary school with around 175 students. A student told CBC that during the shooting, classmates helped “get tables and barricaded the doors” to protect themselves.
“It felt like I was somewhere that I had only seen across a TV,” Darian Quist, a Grade 12 student, told CBC.
Canadian federal police Chief Superintendent Ken Floyd confirmed that the suspect found dead at the school matches the description sent in an alert to residents’ phones earlier in the day.
🚨 At least 10 dead and 30 injured after someone wearing a dress opened fire at Tumbler Ridge Secondary School in Canada pic.twitter.com/qTWDgEDFpQ
The alert described the individual as a “female in a dress with brown hair.”
While authorities believe they know the identity of the attacker, they have not released further details, including any connection the suspect may have had with the school. Floyd acknowledged that understanding the motive will be challenging:
”I think we will struggle to determine the ‘why’, but we will try our best to determine what transpired,” he said during a virtual news conference. ”We are not in a place to understand why or what may have motivated this tragedy.”
Canadian police gives update after the school shooting in Tumbler Ridge
In a statement, the RCMP said:
“As part of the initial response to the active shooting, police entered the school to locate the threat. During the search, officers located multiple victims. An individual believed to be the shooter was also found deceased with what appears to be a self‑inflicted injury.”
Prime Minister Mark Carney expressed his condolences, calling the incident a “horrific” tragedy:
”I am devastated by today’s horrific shootings in Tumbler Ridge, B.C. My prayers and deepest condolences are with the families and friends who have lost loved ones to these horrific acts of violence.”
Premier David Eby of British Columbia described the shooting as an “unimaginable tragedy” and urged the community to support one another in the aftermath:
”I’m asking the people of British Columbia to look after the people of Tumbler Ridge tonight,” he said.
Mass shootings are rare in Canada. The country’s deadliest prior attacks include the 1989 Montreal mass shooting, which claimed 14 lives, and a 2020 rampage in Nova Scotia, which killed 22 people. Following those events, Canada introduced stricter gun control measures, including a national buyback program for military-style firearms.
Authorities have not yet released the identities of the victims or confirmed details about the firearms used. Approximately 100 students and staff were evacuated from the school, which, along with the town’s elementary school and a local college, remained closed for the rest of the week.
Tumbler Ridge, founded as a coal-mining town in the Rocky Mountain foothills, is surrounded by wilderness and located near the Alberta border. The shooting is considered the third-deadliest in Canadian history.
Officer Bennett hiked three miles into the dense forest, following a tip about a starving animal. He thought he was prepared. After 15 years on the force, he had seen cruelty in its worst forms. But nothing could have readied him for this.
When he finally spotted the dog, it was almost invisible among the shadows of the trees—a walking skeleton chained to a massive pine. The earth around it was stripped bare, worn down from pacing until exhaustion claimed him.
Bennett reached for his water bottle, expecting at least a whimper, a bark, anything. But silence hung in the air, thick and heavy. Kneeling, his eyes fell on the horrifying reason.
The dog’s muzzle wasn’t just confined by a chain—it had been wrapped in rusty baling wire, twisted cruelly tight into the flesh. The realization hit Bennett like a punch: this wasn’t neglect. This was deliberate torture.
“They didn’t just abandon him,” Bennett whispered, voice breaking, fury simmering beneath the pain. “They wired his mouth shut so no one would ever hear him scream.”
With shaking hands, he used his multi-tool to cut away the wire. He braced for fear or aggression, but the dog did something unexpected. Slowly, carefully, he rested his head on Bennett’s chest, eyes closing as if to say: I’m safe now. I’m finally heard.
That day, Bennett carried him out of the woods. Today, the dog—now named “Survivor”—is gaining weight at the vet hospital. Bennett has already filed the adoption papers. Soon, Survivor will have the home he’s always deserved.
Some wounds are deep. Some silence is brutal. But love, even after unimaginable suffering, can heal everything.
Supporters of the current direction of the U.S. military say a clear shift is underway — one that places fitness, discipline, and combat readiness back at the center of national defense.
Under Pete Hegseth’s leadership, the focus, they argue, is no longer on social experimentation or ideological messaging, but on restoring traditional military standards. The emphasis is on physical capability, unit cohesion, and the mental toughness required to fight and win wars.
Critics, meanwhile, argue that inclusion and readiness are not mutually exclusive and warn against oversimplifying complex issues. Still, those favoring the current direction maintain that combat effectiveness must always come first, especially in an increasingly unstable world.
At its core, the debate reflects a larger question about the role of the armed forces — whether they should serve as vehicles for social change or remain narrowly focused on warfighting. For supporters of this new direction, the answer is clear: national security depends on soldiers trained to fight, not on political correctness.
A Nurse’s Gift of Life: How Compassion Saved an 8-Year-Old Boy
‘Your Prosthetic Is Distracting,’ the Teacher Said — What Happened Next Surprised Everyone”
A Father’s Love: Josh Marshall’s Tattoo of Courage
A New Halftime Experience by Turning Point USA
OMG! She Sank Into the Mud So the Mare Wouldn’t Be Alone.
Iowa National Guard soldiers returning from Middle East deployment
Unconscious on the Rails, He Was Saved by the One Thing He Never Saw Coming.
Canada rocked by the deadliest school sho*ting in 40 years as a ‘woman in a dress’ opens f*re
Officer Bennett’s Heroic Rescue: Saving a Dog from Torture
Commentary: A Return to Military Readiness Under Hegseth’s Leadership
