They did ten.
Only ten.
At the top of the last repetition, Jackson called, “Two hundred and one!”
Ninety-three voices answered, “Done!”
Then they rolled onto their backs laughing at the sky.
For Sarah, that was the moment the number stopped belonging to Hayes.
Graduation approached.
Sarah’s father drove from Ohio in an aging pickup with a toolbox still in the bed. He arrived a day early and found her outside the barracks after rehearsal.
His grease-blackened hands were exactly as she remembered.
He hugged her carefully.
“You look skinny.”
“I gained muscle.”
“Still skinny.”
They sat beneath a shade tree while she told him about the three hundred push-ups.
He listened without interrupting.
When she repeated his old line about refusing to quit, his face changed.
“I said that?”
“About a thousand times.”
“Huh.”
Sarah stared at him.
“That’s all you have? Huh?”
He rubbed his jaw.
“I meant don’t let people convince you that one hard day gets to decide your whole life. I did not mean let some idiot grind your bones into pavement because stopping is morally illegal.”
Sarah laughed so hard she had to look away.
“Jackson said almost the same thing.”
“Smart kid.”
“Do not encourage him.”
Her father became serious.
“You know what I’m proudest of?”
“That I finished?”
