“You look the same,” I answered.
She smiled like she could not decide if that was an insult.
I had chosen my clothes carefully.
No dress uniform.
No ribbons.
No polished shoes.
Just a faded gray hoodie, dark jeans, and old sneakers that had carried me through airports, motor pools, and hospital corridors where young soldiers waited for news they did not want.
The hoodie was deliberate.
So was the button sewn near the collar.
So was the phone I placed face down on the kitchen table after confirming the secure line had not disconnected.
The call had begun as routine.
A briefing.
A narrow, classified conversation about readiness, movement, and timing.
Then Linda had opened the back door and said, “Put that away while you’re in my house.”
I told the people on the line I would reconnect after dinner.
One of them asked whether I wanted the line closed.
