“No. That you told him you couldn’t safely continue.”
Sarah stared at him.
“That felt like the weakest thing I did.”
“That’s because you’re stubborn.”
“Genetic.”
“Absolutely.”
He held up one hand.
“Strength is useful. Knowing what it’s for is harder.”
The sentence settled somewhere deep.
On graduation morning, ninety-three soldiers stood in formation beneath a cleaner, kinder sun than the one that had burned the drill pad weeks earlier.
Sarah’s palms had healed. Thin pink marks remained where gravel had cut them.
Jackson stood two positions away.
When the platoon was dismissed, families flooded the field.
Sarah found her father first.
Then she noticed someone standing near the edge of the crowd.
Drill Sergeant Hayes.
He was not wearing the campaign hat.
He had no authority over them now.
For a second, anger rushed through Sarah so quickly she tasted metal.
Hayes did not approach.
He simply stood there.
Jackson saw him too.
“Want me to accidentally become a farm vehicle?”
“No.”
“I can be very large by accident.”
“Jackson.”
“Fine.”
Sarah walked toward Hayes herself.
Her father started to follow.
She shook her head.
