feel like I had to do more than I should.â Itâs a good excuse, almost solid.
âShort quit. Yesterday in the river. The cadets started calling us names and she just decided she couldnât take it,â I say. âIf youâre going to try to finish out the year, you need to come back. Weâve got to stick together.â
âI just need to rest my ankle for a day or so. Iâll be back up there tomorrow when classes start, okay?â Sheâs not budging. Her jaw is set firm and sheâs not changing her mind. Even though sheâd hated Hell Week, sheâd never once talked about not wanting to be there.
But Katie wouldnât last if Matthews started spitting on her or yelling at her like he did me. Sheâd crack. âDid Matthews threaten you or something?â
Itâs a small hesitation, but itâs there just the same. âNo . . . of course not.â
âMatthews doesnât treat us as hard as he treats you, Sam. Itâs crazy how much pressure he puts on you,â Cross says, sounding at least a little sympathetic, then turning to Katie. âBut thatâs no excuse. Weâve got to work just as hard. Everyoneâs watching us this year and we canât slack off at all,â she says, for the first time hinting that maybe Katie isnât pulling her weight.
âI canât help that I got hurt.â Katie sits a little higher in the bed and winces.
âJust get better, okay? The sooner youâre back, the sooner we can stick together.â
âWeâll see you at lunch tomorrow. Get back to the barracks as soon as they say itâs okay,â Cross says.
Katie crosses her arms and looks out the window. âNow, I think I really should rest while I have the chance. And Iâm sure you guys want to get back to be part of the company.â
I stand and look at Cross. Thereâs no point in pushing anymore. âReady?â
She nods. âSee you, Quinn.â
Katie doesnât say anything, though. She just keeps staring out the window. The conversation is over.
Â
The rain turns to drizzle as we trudge back across campus, squaring corners, our eyes locked straight ahead. It may be a Sunday but we wonât be at ease on campus until weâre recognized as full-fledged members of the Corps. And that wonât happen for at least a few months. When Cross heads to the library to meet up with the rest of the company, I give her a little nod. Iâve still got one more stop to make, so I continue around the PG, then down the hill toward the mess hall.
The chapel is a redbrick building with window frames, columns, and a steeple all painted a blinding white. Once the school year starts up, every Sunday weâre allowed to come to a service if we want.
I open the heavy wooden door and walk in.
âGood morning, Miss McKenna.â
The voice makes me jump, even though itâs the quietest voice Iâve heard in days. The man who spoke is tall and portly, and has a mustache as thick as three fingers. He smiles through the âstache, although I canât see his teeth behind the whiskers. He wears a long white robe with a red cross on the front and a rope belt tied at his waistâvery Christ-like. Iâm surprised heâs not wearing sandals.
Heâs standing in a small open area in front of the sanctuary. âWhy donât you come into my office?â He gestures to his left. Maroon carpet cushions my steps as I follow him through the open door.
I run a hand over my hair, trying to catch any stray drips, then shut the door behind me. A lamp on his desk lights the room with a warm orange glow. Every inch of the office and floor, other than a small walkway to get to the chair and the reverendâs desk, is covered in stacks of papers and books. Pictures of Rev with cadets and soldiers, some on battlefields, some in dress blues with women in white dresses, cover all but a small