Chapter 3: Trials by Fire

You slogged past kudzu-choked ditches and rusted mailboxes, boots squelching through fields that smelled of wet clay. Sunrises bled into cold, silver moonlight. Sometimes someone would just drop right there on the road, silent and sudden, and wouldn’t get up again. You learned to keep your eyes straight ahead, but you never stopped counting footsteps, never stopped listening for the next fall.

The officer, never missing a beat, would just shake his head. “That one’s the lucky one,” he’d mutter, voice flat. “Don’t have to suffer through this hell any longer.” And just like that, the line kept moving, boots crunching gravel and hearts steeled by necessity.

You went down once, too. You’d gotten up in the middle of a cold night to take a leak in the brush and came back shivering. By sunrise, your skin was burning, sweat soaking your shirt. The officer looked you over, wrote you off with a shrug. “Ain’t gonna make it,” he told the others. “Might as well leave him for the crows.”

A couple stray dogs watched from the roadside, eyes wild and hungry, barking sharp and mean. Their hackles were up, like they were just waiting for the officer’s say-so. You remember thinking, ‘Guess that’s it, then.’

But the big guy wouldn’t have it. “Let me carry him,” he pleaded, desperation cracking in his voice. “Let’s get him to a doctor, sir. Please.” He looked at the officer like a man who still believed in miracles, or at least in not leaving a kid behind.

The officer shook his head and cursed, called the big guy soft, a bleeding heart. “He won’t last. He’ll just be cannon fodder, even if he makes it.” You bit your tongue, shame burning hotter than your fever.

But the big guy stared him down, jaw set stubborn. “Maybe. But I’d rather he make it to the front and go down fighting than rot on the side of some backwater road.” His words hung in the air, raw and defiant.

For a minute, nobody said a thing. Then, like the fight had just drained out of him, the officer let out a long, tired sigh. “Fine. You carry him. If he’s still breathing when we hit the next town, we’ll see about a doctor. But it’s on you.”

That day, the road felt endless—a hundred miles crammed into every step. For the first time, you felt the big guy’s strength up close, his arms were like steel cables, sweat mixing with the smell of gun oil and dust. His back slick with sweat, muscles trembling under the strain. Every jolt sent pain shooting through your bones, but you clung tight, biting back tears. The world blurred, and all you could think was how tired he must be, how much this must cost him.

When you finally reached a dusty little town, the world tilted and spun. The big guy lowered you down, gentle as he could, but your knees buckled and you hit the dirt hard. Before you could even thank him, the world went black and you passed out cold, right there on the main drag.

The officer glanced at you both, his face twisted in annoyance, but after a string of curses, he spun around and hollered for a doctor. Even when he was angry, he kept his word. Folks in the town stared, but someone fetched a doc, and that probably saved your life. The doc wore overalls and a Braves cap, his hands steady as he checked your pulse.