Chapter 48: The Ghost in the Supermarket

The calls back to base became a rhythmic torture. I’d be in the middle of buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle, when the text would come. The sudden shift from a civilian world of choice—twenty different types of granola—to the rigid, accusatory world of the military was jarring.

One afternoon, the call-back was different. It wasn't an inquiry. It was a formal hearing.

As I walked through the PX on my way to the headquarters building, I saw a group of new recruits. They were young, their uniforms too stiff, their eyes filled with a terrifying innocence. They looked at me—at the white patches on my face and hands—and I saw a flicker of that old curiosity.

"Is she a burn victim?" one whispered to his friend.

I stopped. I didn't hide. I didn't turn my face away. I walked right up to them.

"It’s vitiligo," I said, my voice calm. "It’s a skin condition. And if you’re going to survive where you’re going, you’d better start looking at a person’s eyes instead of their skin."

They snapped to attention, mumbling apologies. I kept walking. I realized then that the "Porcelain Front" had become a permanent part of me. I didn't need the unit to protect me anymore. I was my own armor.