He keeps his motions steady—ladle, tray, nod—because rhythm is the only shield he has left. The soldiers see a leader honoring their service; they don’t see the legal briefs that turned his campaign strategy into a constitutional test. He remembers the calls, the meetings, the careful dance between what was “coordinated” and what was merely “aligned,” and how normal it all felt until someone decided it might be too much power in too few hands.

As the line thins, the stakes sharpen. If the Court decides that limits on party-candidate coordination are unconstitutional, future campaigns will wield money with fewer restraints, blurring the line between persuasion and domination. If the limits stand, his own legacy may be recast as a warning rather than a roadmap. Walking out of the mess hall, past the flags and salutes, he understands that the judgment that matters most won’t come from the crowd in front of him, but from a bench he cannot charm, only await.