“Four years.” The number sat in the room between us.

“Then why am I the one holding it?”

“Because a sergeant’s initials on a chain of custody form mean something in a hearing room that a general’s argument doesn’t.” She held out her hand.

“May I?”

I gave it to her.

She slid the page into the black leather binder and closed it with a snap.

Then it all came to me at once, standing in that brick room with dust on my sleeve.

She had never come here for a gate violation.