“You’ve had a complicated fourteen months.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand that your medical history doesn’t make you exempt from standards.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But it also doesn’t automatically disqualify you.”
I looked up.
“Sir?”
He closed the folder.
“You came here because you wanted to know what your body could still do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then find out responsibly.”
I nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
He stood.
“Your selection clock resets next Monday.”
My heart jumped.
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
I smiled.
“Yes, sir.”
When I stepped outside, Vega was waiting.
“So?”
I smiled.
“Monday.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
I looked at the course in the distance.
Six weeks earlier, I had seen it as a place where people would discover I wasn’t strong enough.
Now I saw something different.
It wasn’t a test of whether my body was the same as it had been before cancer.
It wasn’t.
It never would be.
It was a test of whether I could stop being ashamed of that fact.
I turned toward Vega.
“I’m ready.”
He studied me.
Then he shook his head.
“No.”
I frowned.
“You’re not.”
He pointed toward the medical building.
“You’re going home tonight.”
I laughed.
“You’re impossible.”
“Probably.”
He started walking away.
