She looks at me from among the group. Her clear brown eyes aim straight at me, and I can feel them on me even though I’m not looking at her. I try to act casual, but my breath gets caught in my throat anyway. Did she notice? I keep moving, forcing my hand to resist the urge to check underneath the collar of my shirt.
How do I look? Is my shirt tucked in? Are my shoes tied right? When was the last time I cut my hair? A dozen thoughts enter my head, and for those few moments what she sees when she looks at me is the most important thing in the world.
But then I walk past, and the MP looks back down at her note pad. I show my military ID to the guard at the entrance to the base, walk in, and let my hand go to my neck like it wanted to. Good, my dog tag is there like it’s supposed to be.
I don’t know why I was worried about being written up.