The air conditioning hit us like a wall of ice.

The lobby was empty, cleared out by the military police who now stood at attention by the secure briefing room.

General Vance swiped his security badge against the card reader on the heavy steel door.

The lock clicked, and a green light flashed.

He pushed the door open and held it, gesturing for us to enter.

The briefing room was windowless, dominated by a long oak table and twelve high-backed leather chairs.

A large tactical map of Fort Garrison hung on the far wall, flanked by the national and state flags.

The air smelled of stale coffee and floor wax.

“Sit,” the General commanded, pointing to the table.

I took a seat on the left side, placing my officer’s cap precisely on the wood before me.

Andrew sat opposite me, his hands trembling so badly he had to clasp them together between his knees.

Claire sat next to him, her eyes burning holes into me.

Our parents sat at the far end, looking like strangers dragged into a courtroom.

General Vance remained standing at the head of the table.