Dererick leaned in, smirking. “Yeah, well, eat faster. You’re taking up space real soldiers need.” He flicked her tray, sending a spoonful of mashed potatoes splattering onto her shirt. The room howled.

Olivia wiped the mess with a napkin, her hands slow, her eyes never leaving her plate. She took another bite like he wasn’t even there.

Warm-ups were a test of endurance—push-ups until your arms shook, sprints that burned your lungs, burpees in the dirt under a blazing sun. Olivia kept pace, her breathing steady, but her shoelaces kept slipping loose. They were old, frayed, barely holding her boots together.

During a sprint, a guy named Lance jogged up beside her. Lance was the group’s golden boy—broad-shouldered with a grin that said he’d never lost at anything. “Yo, thrift store,” he called loud enough for the whole line to hear. “Your shoes giving up? Or is that just you?”

Laughter rippled through the group. Olivia didn’t respond. She knelt, retied her laces with quick, precise fingers, and stood. But as she did, Lance bumped her shoulder hard. She stumbled, her hands hitting the mud, her knees sinking into the wet earth. The group howled.

“What’s that, Mitchell?” Lance said, smirking. “You signing up to clean the floors or just be our punching bag?”