I Collapsed During Military Training—Then My Sergeant Saw the Scars I Kept Hidden
part 2
The medic’s expression changed before anyone else understood why.
He looked from my chest to my face, then back again.
“Don’t move,” he said quietly.
I tried to pull the torn jacket closed, but my arms wouldn’t cooperate.
The world kept sliding in and out of focus.
Above me, the Georgia sky was a pale, merciless blur.
“Mercer,” Vega said.
His voice had lost its edge.
That frightened me more than the heat.
The medic cut through the second layer beneath my jacket.
Fabric fell open, exposing the compression garment I had worn beneath my uniform every day since arriving at selection.
It was not regulation.
It was not something I had ever wanted anyone to see.
The medic’s fingers hovered near the old, pale scars that curved beneath my collarbones and disappeared beneath the garment.
“Is this surgical?” he asked.
I said nothing.
“Mercer, I need an answer.”
My mouth felt too dry to speak.
The medic looked toward Vega.
“Help me get her sitting up.”
Vega dropped to one knee beside me.
For six weeks, he had never touched me except to correct my position or shove a ruck strap back onto my shoulder.
