I laughed, a real honest-to-god bark that probably sounded a bit unhinged in the boardroom, as Mark recounted his golf course mishap. My hand was already halfway to my trousers, wiping away the clammy sweat, the old familiar dread coiling in my gut like a snake after a field exercise. Every single day, every day it's like this, this constant performative… thing. (I wonder if they see it, the tremble in my hand when I pick up my coffee mug, the way my eyes dart around the room like I'm looking for an exit.) Sometimes I just wish I could go back to the regiment, where at least the threats were external, tangible.