First Sergeant Briggs thought he was 𝕙𝕦𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 a mere recruit in the Sonora desert, unaware that he was actually signing his own death warrant in front of an infiltrated superior officer.

First Sergeant Briggs marched toward us, his frame thick with muscle and authority that he wielded like a weapon. He was in his mid-forties with eyes that scanned for vulnerability like a predator. He stopped in front of me and let the silence stretch for the benefit of the watching recruits.

“Private Winslow,” he said, voice sharp enough to slice the heat. “Did you fall into the supply closet to dress this morning?”

“No, First Sergeant,” I replied, eyes straight ahead.

He leaned close enough that I smelled stale coffee and chewing tobacco. “You look like you crawled here. You think this is some charity camp for strays?”

“No, First Sergeant.”

The courtyard went still.

“So what is it, then?” he asked. “Why do you drag the rest of us down with whatever backwoods nonsense you brought from… whatever you call home?”

A flicker of resentment stirred in the ranks. He wanted it. He expected it.

“I do not know, First Sergeant,” I answered evenly.

“Drop and give me twenty. Everyone else, make room for the show.”

I let my palms hit the blistering pavement. The pain meant nothing, not compared to what I had seen men and women endure while wearing the same flag on their shoulder.