A White Mercedes Pulled Up to Gate Six on a Tuesday Afternoon Without a Permit
The garrison commander had signed this box out of the archive a week before a white Mercedes pulled up to my gate.
The administrative corridor at 1300 smelled like floor wax.
Salas stood by the water fountain holding two paper sacks.
“Sergeant.
I got you a sandwich.
They threw out the good bread at noon, so it’s the other bread.”
“Thank you, Salas.”
He walked beside me.
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