“Look at the division patch on her left shoulder.”

“I don’t care about her patch,” Evan sneered.

“She isn’t in our chain of command, and she isn’t going to say a word to us.”

On my left, Clara Higgins sat with her six-year-old daughter on her lap.

Clara kept shifting her heavy shoulder bag from one shoulder to the other, her knuckles white where she clutched the canvas strap.

In the open pocket of Clara’s bag I could see a small blue spiral notepad and a pen leaning against a container of baby wipes.