I had no good answer. The button had been fine when I’d checked my uniform an hour ago. It must have loosened during morning PT. But explaining that would sound like making excuses, and Crawford didn’t tolerate excuses.“No reason, sir.”
He stepped closer, his face inches from mine. I could smell coffee and cigarettes on his breath. “You know what your problem is, Torres? You think you can slide by. You think quiet means competent.”
I said nothing. Experience had taught me that responding only made things worse.
“This uniform represents something bigger than you,” he continued, his voice rising so the whole platoon could hear. “When you wear it sloppily, you disrespect everyone who’s worn it before you. You disrespect the Corps.”“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t think you understand that.” He reached out and grabbed my collar, yanking it to expose the button more clearly. “I don’t think you understand respect at all.”
That’s when his hand brushed against something I’d kept hidden for three months. A raised line of scar tissue that ran from my collarbone down beneath my shirt, the kind of scar that tells a story you don’t want to explain.
Crawford froze. His eyes narrowed, and I saw confusion flicker across his face before his anger returned.“What is that?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“That’s not nothing. Show me.”
My stomach dropped. “Sir, I’d prefer—”
