Henderson said.

“I told him federal rules require the designated officer’s signature.”

“Thanks, Mr.

Henderson,” I said.

“He didn’t take no for an answer too easily,” the clerk added, dropping his pen back into the brass cup.

I slipped the red courier envelope into the inside pocket of my civilian coat and stepped out into the cool October air.

At half past eleven, I walked into the Oakridge Officer Auxiliary Lodge on Maple Avenue looking for my mother.

The side coffee room smelled of polished mahogany and dark roast coffee.