Two women sitting across the row shifted in their plastic chairs, their eyes darting back and forth between my gold oak leaf and Evan’s low-quarter shoes.

I turned a page of my battered paperback, keeping my eyes on the black print of chapter seven.

“I’m talking to you, ma’am,” he said, stretching out the last word in a sharp, sarcastic drawl.

“Or does the Army not teach basic manners to folks in shiny brass?”

“Evan, drop it,” Mason Reid called from the next bench over, his voice low and tight.

Evan didn’t turn around.