The general standing near the podium looked at me as I approached.
Brigadier General Ellen Prescott.
A calm woman with silver hair, clear eyes, and a reputation for ending conversations by asking one question no one could escape.
“Can you prove it?”
I had met her two weeks earlier in a secure conference room outside Washington, D.C.
She had not comforted me.
She had not apologized.
She had listened.
Then she had read the file in silence.
When she finished, she removed her glasses and said, “Captain Monroe, this should have been reviewed properly years ago.”
I remember answering, “Yes, ma’am.”
She looked at the documents again.
“Are you prepared for what happens if we correct it now?”
I thought of my mother’s phone calls.
Madison’s smirks.
My father’s disappointment.
Jason’s careful speeches about honor.
“I have been prepared for six years,” I said.
