“There’s been a mistake,” the man in the aisle seat said loudly enough for the entire first-class cabin to hear. “People in this section don’t live paycheck to paycheck.” I was wearing wrinkled scrubs after a 14-hour trauma shift, and he had already decided who I was. Then I reached up to get my bag from the overhead bin. My collar shifted — and a tattoo appeared on my shoulder. A compass wrapped around a broken spear, and beneath it the Roman numeral XVII. Three rows back, a Marine general went pale. Then he stood up and called me by my rank.
“There’s been a mistake,” the man in the aisle seat said loudly enough for the entire first-class cabin to hear. “People in this section don’t live paycheck to paycheck.” I was wearing wrinkled scrubs after a 14-hour trauma shift, and he had already decided who I was. Then I reached up to get my bag…
