“One hundred.”
Her vision blurred.
Her hand slipped on the next repetition.
A boot scraped behind her.
Hayes snapped toward the formation.
“Stand at attention!”
Every man froze.
Sarah forced herself back into position.
“One hundred and ten.”
The world narrowed to black pavement, polished combat boots, and numbers.
She remembered the recruiter looking at her small frame and suggesting an office assignment.
She remembered her father’s grease-blackened hands after twelve-hour shifts at the garage.
The only thing you truly own, he had always told her, is your refusal to quit.
“One hundred and fifty.”
Halfway.
Her arms shook so violently her dog tags clicked against the pavement.
Hayes stepped closer.
For the first time, his expression shifted.
“You’re shaking, Miller.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“You can recover.”
Sarah held the raised position.
He was giving her permission to stop.
She lifted her head slightly.
“Three hundred was the order, Drill Sergeant.”
Then she lowered herself.
“One hundred and fifty-one.”
A breath moved through the formation.
Something had changed.
“One hundred and seventy.”
