Then he stopped.
“Mercer.”
I looked back.
“Welcome back.”
For the first time, I didn’t hear an order in his voice.
I heard respect.
PART 5
Three months later, I stood at the starting line again.
The Georgia heat had returned.
So had the rucksack.
So had the shouting.
But I was different.
Not stronger because the cancer had made me stronger.
Not stronger because I had survived something terrible.
Stronger because I had finally stopped confusing strength with silence.
Before the first event began, I adjusted my straps.
Vega walked past me.
He stopped.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Breathing?”
“Yes.”
“Pain?”
I thought about the question.
“Nothing unusual.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
Then he walked away.
No special treatment.
No pity.
No hesitation.
Exactly what I had wanted from the beginning.
The course began.
I ran.
Not to prove anything.
Not to prove my mother wrong.
Not to prove my doctors wrong.
Not to prove Vega wrong.
And certainly not to prove cancer had failed to break me.
I ran because I wanted to be there.
The first miles were easy.
Then they weren’t.
My shoulders burned.
My legs became heavy.
Sweat soaked through my uniform.
At mile eight, I wanted to stop.
