Chapter 2
I watched Bishop rush his third shot and pull right from impatience. I watched Alvarez fight his breathing and then correct it without instruction. I watched a recruit from Kansas named Theo keep his hands so still they barely looked alive, then trust his scope more than the noise around him.
Harland saw only one thing.
"What's wrong, Voss? Trigger too heavy?"
"No, Sergeant."
"Then fire."
"I'd rather observe first."
He stared at me for the duration of a man deciding whether to escalate. "You'd rather observe."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I ran my thumb along a small nick near the sling mount. "Because I need to remember why I stopped."
For half a second, the whole line went quiet. Then Bishop leaned toward the recruit beside him and said, loud enough to carry, "She probably shot a soda can once and got emotional."
They laughed again. I stayed quiet.
Quiet is useful. It lets careless people show you the full shape of themselves, which is information you eventually need.
Every night after training, while they drove into Camden Falls for food and the beers they were not supposed to drink, I stayed behind. I checked optics. Rewrapped loose sling tape. Logged small failures in the maintenance binder with the specific attention of someone who understood that equipment did not care about your feelings or your rank or the audience watching when it failed.
Thanksgiving fell during our fourth week. The cafeteria served dry turkey and instant potatoes and canned cranberry in plastic cups, and a small American flag in a plastic holder trembled near the serving line whenever the air vent kicked on. Some recruits called home. Some complained.
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Bishop took a photograph of me cleaning a rifle alone at the end of a table. At 6:12 in the evening he turned his phone toward me with the caption already visible. The photo was posted. Training with America's finest… and one confused little girl. My face blurred in the background, not enough.
"Delete it," I said.
