Down the hall, a luggage cart rattled past the outer door.

“You made assumptions about this uniform, Private,” I said.

“You assumed quiet meant weak.

You assumed rank was something you could pick up at a surplus store.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carter said, his jaw going tight.

“The gold oak leaves on this collar took twenty-two years of service to earn,” I said.

“When you report to your battalion headquarters tomorrow, you’ll check in with the division inspector general every Monday morning at 06:00.

If you miss a single check-in, I’ll sign your final discharge papers myself.”