I sat in the room, nervous. I had sensed this moment coming all week. Though I felt a small comfort and peace, deep inside, I was terrified. I was bracing for the letdown—far from my first. I made small talk with someone twenty years my junior, knowing that soon, he would ask me to step down. That reality was hard to face. My mind drifted back to my first year as a deputy. I had called my father repeatedly, distressed over my fifth write-up. Each time, he told me to thank them for the discipline, not to quit, and to keep my head up. But I was overcome with sorrow. I felt like a failure. Maybe I could earn straight A’s, but I had no common sense. I feared I would never catch on. I was beginning to give up. Still, my dad insisted I keep going. In my first week alone, I had discharged my weapon—firing over sixteen rounds at a bull on Super Bowl Sunday. Not long after, I found myself in a full-blown foot pursuit of an escapee, my face, mostly pride battered from the struggle. My track...