Across the four-foot walkway, three young Marines in utility uniforms were sprawled over a bank of four blue vinyl chairs.

The tallest, a lance corporal with a fresh haircut and a thick neck, was leaning back with his hands laced behind his head.

His name tag read Carter, and his eyes were locked on the gold oak leaf pinned to my right collar.

“Hey, Mason,” Lance Corporal Evan Carter said, his voice slicing easily through the background chatter of the terminal.

“You know they let people wear full dress greens just to fly coach now?”