The medic removed my canteen from its pouch and held it to my mouth.
I drank too quickly, coughed, and felt the water burn down my throat.
“Small sips,” he said.
“You’re dehydrated, overheated, and probably fighting a blood pressure drop.”
“I can finish the march.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I’m fine.”
“You collapsed.”
“I can walk.”
Vega looked at me.
“Stop.”
The word was quiet, but it carried the authority of all the times he had shouted it.
This time, I listened.
The support truck pulled up beside the road, raising a cloud of dust.
Another medic jumped down with a stretcher, but I pushed against the ground.
“No stretcher.”
“Mercer,” Vega said.
“I can walk.”
His expression tightened.
“You don’t get to make this harder because you’re embarrassed.”
The sentence struck close enough to hurt.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No,” he said.
“I don’t.”
That was the first honest thing he had ever said to me.
The medic and Vega helped me stand.
My knees buckled immediately.
Vega caught my elbow while the medic steadied my other arm.
The moment my weight leaned against him, I felt the muscles in his arm tense.
