A White Mercedes Pulled Up to Gate Six on a Tuesday Afternoon Without a Permit
I kept walking.
“You hit me.”
General Vance had the yellowed 1996 personnel file open on the desk when I walked in.
Her black leather binder sat beside it, closed.
She took off her wire-rimmed glasses and set them on the file.
“Sit down, Sergeant.”
I sat.
The chair was cold through my trousers.
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