Vance opened a black leather binder, as wide as a folded newspaper and pale at the corners, and wrote across the first ruled page in longhand.

She wrote the date, the hour, and the name of the book, then tore the page out along its perforation and held it toward me.

“Receipt.

Sign at the bottom.”

I signed.

She took the page back, read my name, and handed it over again.

“One red hardbound gate logbook, in the custody of an inspector general, thirteen thirty-eight hours.

Keep that in your pocket, Sergeant, not in a drawer.”