“Yes.
Cancer.”
The silence that followed was different from the silence before.
It had weight.
The medic exhaled slowly, then checked my pulse again.
“How long ago?”
“Fourteen months.”
Vega’s face did not change, but something in his eyes did.
“Fourteen months since diagnosis?” the medic asked.
“Since surgery.”
“What kind of surgery?”
I closed my eyes.
“Bilateral mastectomy.”
No one moved.
The words sounded clinical when doctors said them.
Practical.
A line in a file.
A procedure with a beginning and an end.
Spoken there, beneath the Georgia sun, they became something else.
A door opening.
A room full of people I had spent six weeks avoiding.
The medic reached for the side of my compression garment.
“You have reconstruction?”
“No.”
“Implants?”
“No.”
“Then what am I looking at?”
“Scar tissue.”
He nodded, understanding beginning to replace alarm.
“And the garment?”
“To keep everything supported.”
“Were you cleared for this level of exertion?”
I didn’t answer quickly enough.
The medic’s eyes narrowed.
“Mercer.”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“My surgeon.
The Army physician at intake.”
“Any restrictions?”
“No.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I swallowed.
“Not anymore.”
Vega shifted beside me.
“What does that mean?”
I turned my face away from him.
