A White Mercedes Pulled Up to Gate Six on a Tuesday Afternoon Without a Permit
“Who wrote these entries?”
“Private Dewitt, ma’am.
I initialed each one as he wrote it.”
“And this stamp.”
“That’s not garrison ink.” She said it flatly, the way a person reads a tire pressure.
“No, ma’am.
I flagged it this morning.” My hand went to the brass buckle on my belt, and I made myself drop it.
She looked at me one beat longer than the sentence needed.
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