She was short, perhaps five foot four, with a figure that had softened with age. Her scrubs were a generic, faded blue, devoid of the sharp creases Sterling admired in his Marines. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, strands of silver fighting a losing battle against the dark brown.
She wore comfortable, worn-out clogs, and reading glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose. To Sterling’s discerning and prejudiced eye, she looked like a substitute teacher or a grandmother who baked cookies. She did not look like a warrior, nor someone capable of handling the damaged machinery of a Marine Commander.
“Lieutenant Colonel Sterling?” she called out. Her voice was calm, almost melodic, cutting through the din of the waiting room. Sterling stopped pacing and turned.
He looked over her shoulder, expecting a doctor or at least a Chief Petty Officer. “I’m Sterling.”
“I’m Nurse Sarah Jenkins,” she said, offering a small, polite smile. “I’ll be doing your intake and initial assessment before the surgeon sees you.
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