“Just Egypt?” The chiseled-faced, bristle-haired field security sergeant, who looked every one of his nineteen years, fixed me with an intense, cold gaze. They practice that gaze in front of mirrors, I told myself, but my palms were sweating.
It was early summer, 1987, and I’d received a brown envelope requesting that I report to my reserve regiment’s field security office at a particular time on a particular day. I knew very well what it was about.
“No,” I said, working to keep my voice level. “I went to Jordan, too.”
The kid leaned back in his chair and the faintest of smiles played over his lips.
I’m suddenly back in fifth grade, when Mark Glick and Mike Sheltzer were monitoring my brain.