Her pen stopped moving when she asked the next question.
“Where were you stationed in 2005?”
“Ramadi, ma’am.”
I said it the way I always did—flat, without embellishment. Just a place. Just a fact. But something in the room shifted anyway, subtle enough that you wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking for it.
Judge Whitmore’s eyes lifted from the file, studying me more closely now.
“Unit?”
I told her.
And then something happened that I still struggle to explain without sounding like I’m exaggerating.
Her expression changed.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that drew immediate attention. But there was a flicker there—recognition, maybe, or something close to it. Her hand tightened slightly around her pen.
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