Sgt. Snorkel's Revelation
He'd seen the notebooks before — observations about duty, time, scrubbing latrines. Usually he'd dismissed them as the kind of thing a man did when he had too much education and not enough sense. But today he noticed something else: the focus in Plato's eyes. The calm. Whatever Plato was doing in that notebook, he wasn't performing it for anyone. "You," Snorkel said. "What're you writing?" "Notes on institutions, sir." "That supposed to be about me?" Plato didn't look up. "Only if the boot fits." Beetle peeked out from under the cot. Snorkel held Plato's gaze a long moment. The kid didn't flinch. Didn't smirk either — that would have been easier to deal with. He just waited, pen still. Snorkel turned and left without a word. In his office — barely larger than a supply closet, with a window that faced a concrete wall — Snorkel sat behind his desk while Otto snored at his feet. The office smelled like d...