A White Mercedes Pulled Up to Gate Six on a Tuesday Afternoon Without a Permit

“Hand over your badge and vacate your quarters by the end of the month, Sergeant.”

“My badge stays on my belt until thirteen hundred.

It belongs to the post, sir, not to a desk.”

“Your squad goes to another platoon at noon,” he said.

“That’s not my decision either.”

“Whose is it?”

“You know whose it is.” He put his cap on.

“Read your form.”