in the middle was wearing a medical uniform.
Her hair was tied back.
Her face was young, serious, and unmistakably familiar.
Sergeant Reese looked at the photograph.
Then he looked at me.
Then back at the photograph.
His expression changed, but only slightly.
“That’s an old picture,” he said.
“Yes.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
I reached into my purse.
This time, I took out my visitor’s pass.
I placed it on the table beside my empty water glass.
My photograph was on it.
My name was printed
underneath.
QUINN BRADDOCK.
But Reese was not looking at the pass.
He was looking at the photograph on the wall.
The corporal beside him had stopped smiling.
“Sergeant,” he whispered.
Reese turned.
“What?”
The corporal pointed at the photograph.
“Look at her nameplate.”
There was a small brass plaque beneath the frame.
I had seen it many times before.
It read:
STAFF SERGEANT QUINN BRADDOCK
ARMY NURSE CORPS
VIETNAM — 1968–1969
DECORATED FOR HEROISM UNDER ENEMY FIRE
Reese stared at it.
His eyes moved from the plaque to my coat.
Then
