I left the kitchen table without saying anything and slept in my old room on the second floor.

At a quarter past nine the next morning, I was standing at the counter of the Oakridge post office on Main Street.

The postal clerk, an older man named Mr.

Henderson, put a thick clipboard in front of me and pointed at the yellow line.

“I’ll need picture ID and your signature right there, Lieutenant Colonel,” he said.

I took my military ID card out of my wallet and signed my full rank and name on the form.

He pushed a bright red courier envelope across the counter.