“I asked you for ID,” Sergeant Reese said. He snapped his fingers twice, right in front of my face. “Now. Let’s see it.”
He had no right to ask. A sergeant can’t demand identification from a visitor in the chow line. That’s what the military police are for. Everybody in that room knew it.
I had a visitor’s pass. It was in my purse, on a blue lanyard, with my picture on it, issued that morning at the Gate 4 visitor center.
I didn’t take it out.
I have a stubborn streak that my late husband, Walt, used to call the eighth wonder of the world. I hadn’t come all that way to show my papers to a boy.
I took a sip of water. My hand was steady. It’s the one part of me that still is.
His face had gone red. He’d started this in front of two hundred soldiers, and it wasn’t going the way he’d planned.
