Sarah could barely feel her hands.
Then a whisper came from behind her.
“Come on.”
Private Jackson.
The massive Iowa farm boy who had once dragged her from a mud pit when exhaustion nearly swallowed her.
Hayes spun.
“Silence in the ranks!”
“One hundred and eighty.”
“Push,” another soldier whispered.
“The next man who speaks joins her!”
Nobody answered.
Sarah kept moving.
One hundred ninety-three.
One hundred ninety-four.
One hundred ninety-five.
At two hundred, her elbows finally failed.
She stopped halfway down, chest hovering inches above the asphalt.
She tried to push.
Nothing happened.
This was the moment Hayes had been waiting for.
Sarah closed her eyes.
Then came a sound behind her.
Thud.
A soldier had dropped to the pavement.
Another followed.
Thud.
Then another.
Sarah opened her eyes.
Hayes was no longer watching her.
One soldier was in the front-leaning rest.
