“What does this mean for her selection?”
The physician looked at him.
“It means tomorrow’s scan comes before her next training event.”
Vega nodded.
I expected him to leave.
Instead, he remained.
My mother noticed.
“So,” she said quietly, “you’re the one training her.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re the one who pushed her?”
Vega didn’t look away.
“Yes.”
My mother studied him.
“Then perhaps you should know something.”
I turned toward her.
“Mom.”
She ignored me.
“She doesn’t stop when she’s hurting.”
Vega’s eyes moved toward me.
“I know.”
“No,” my mother said.
“You don’t.”
Her voice cracked.
“She watched her sister die because everyone kept saying she was strong.”
Vega became completely still.
“She thinks weakness is the same thing as surrender,” my mother continued.
“It isn’t,” Vega said.
My mother looked at him.
“Tell her that.”
He looked at me.
“I will.”
The next morning, the imaging center smelled like antiseptic and cold coffee.
I sat in a gown with my hands folded across my lap while my mother filled out paperwork.
Vega had not come inside.
He had waited in the parking lot.
I had told him he didn’t need to stay.
He had answered, “I know.”
Then he stayed anyway.
