“What?”
“I was wrong.”
He said it again, more clearly this time.
The medic continued checking my vitals, pretending not to listen.
I stared at Vega.
He looked uncomfortable, as though the admission cost him something.
Maybe it did.
He had built his whole way of speaking around certainty.
Every correction had been delivered as if he could see straight through people.
Now there was nothing between us but dust, heat, and the truth he had never bothered to ask for.
“You thought I was weak,” I said.
“I thought you were hiding an injury.”
“I was.”
“You hid a medical history.”
“Because people hear the word cancer and stop seeing anything else.”
His eyes returned to me.
“Is that what happened?”
“At intake?
The moment the Army physician saw the scars, he asked whether I was sure I wanted combat arms.”
“That’s a reasonable question.”
“I know.”
“Did he pressure you?”
“No.”
“Did your surgeon?”
“My mother did.”
The answer slipped out before I could stop it.
Vega waited.
The medic adjusted the blood pressure cuff around my arm.
“Stay still.”
I stared at the ceiling of the truck.
“My mother thought I should take a desk assignment.
