The difference was that I no longer needed anyone in those bleachers to validate the uniform I wore.

I turned my back on section one hundred and four and walked toward the staff parking lot.

By six that evening, the off-base townhouse was down to bare walls and dents in the carpet.

Brenda Kowalski sat on an upside-down plastic crate near the front hallway, holding a roll of brown packing tape and a dark marker.

Her clipboard lay on the floor next to three stacked cardboard boxes marked for base quarters.

“That’s the last of the kitchen,” Brenda said, running the tape dispenser along the top seam of the box.