My commander noticed it immediately. “Don’t touch that,” he said.
He didn’t answer right away—just pointed at the label. Half an hour later, the military police were standing in the doorway.
I’ve never made a big deal out of my birthday. No decorations. No dinner plans. Just another quiet Tuesday at Fort Peterson, a lukewarm coffee on my desk, and a pile of post-deployment paperwork from Okinawa waiting to be signed. That’s why the box caught my attention at all. Medium-sized. Plain brown cardboard. Sealed with almost obsessive neatness. My full name printed perfectly—too perfectly, considering half my official documents still get it wrong. Continue reading…
