I waited until the formation was dismissed twenty minutes later before stepping under the stone archway behind the bleachers.

I took out my phone and tapped the screen.

A follow-up text from my mother was waiting, sent forty minutes earlier.

‘It’s embarrassing having to explain to people why our thirty-year-old daughter is still doing military training.’

I locked the screen, slid the phone into my pocket, and smoothed the front of my jacket.

At nine that evening, the living room of my off-base townhouse was dark except for the single brass floor lamp beside the sofa.

My father, Arthur, sat on the arm of the couch with a yellow pad on his lap, clearing his throat every few seconds.