He Poked My Chest And Called My Medals “Trash”—Then The General Walked In And The Whole Room Froze.
PART 1 CHAPTER 1 The dining hall on Thursdays always smelled the same: a mix of industrial floor wax, over-boiled green beans, and coffee that had been sitting on the burner since 0500. It was a sensory profile I had memorized over the last decade, a grounding anchor in a world that had moved on…