Free Rites of Passage by Joy N. Hensley Page A

portion of the walls. This is a man who clearly loves his job.
    â€œSir, thank you for meeting with this recruit, and for agreeing to be this recruit’s mentor this year. It means a lot to this recruit’s father, and to this recruit, sir.”
    He chuckles, his laugh warmer than any I’ve ever heard from Dad. “Sit, Sam, and please, drop all that recruit stuff while you’re with me. I’m Rev, you’re Sam, and if we’re going to be spending the year together, we need to be as relaxed as we can.”
    â€œYes, sir—I mean, Rev.” Heat fills my face and I look away, focusing on the photographs on the wall. I’m standing before I even realize it, my hand reaching out to a picture of my father. “This is from a long time ago.” He’s just a lieutenant in this picture, standing next to Rev. They’re geared up, desert camouflage on, helmets and radios in place. Dad looks happy, his eyes shining, no gray in his hair, even then buzzed short.
    â€œDesert Storm. A lifetime ago.” Rev leans back in his chair, linking his fingers and putting them behind his head. “We became really close during our tour.”
    â€œDad says some friendships never die.”
    â€œHe tells the truth. I’d do anything for him.” He clears his throat, his voice heavy with memory. “Now, let’s get down to business. Think nothing of me being your mentor. Even if your father wasn’t who he is, I would have mentored a female cadet anyway.”
    â€œThank you all the same.”
    He unlinks his hands long enough to wave my thanks away. “So, do you have any concerns right off the bat? Anything we need to take care of? Your company treating you okay?”
    I bite my lip and glance at the open door.
    â€œI’m not Catholic, but consider this a confessional. Unless what you tell me demands my interference because it could harm you or another cadet, it stays between us.” His words hang in the air. Here, surrounded by cadets from years past as well as Rev’s friends, and my father, the weight of what I’m doing slips off my shoulders. Rev, and the men on the walls, are men I’ve been around in some way or another my whole life. They are my father, my brothers, my friends.
    â€œI’m tired. God, I’m so tired and it’s only the first week.”
    Rev nods. “The first week is exhausting. You’re learning, surviving on a lack of sleep, adrenaline fueling every move you make. Now you’re crashing. It’s definitely understandable. You aren’t the only recruit going through this—trust me.”
    â€œAnd tomorrow is going to suck even more.”
    â€œAh, yes. With the Corps coming back today, there will be a new level of exhaustion. You’ll be on display—all eyes watching to see what the females of Alpha Company are able to accomplish.”
    â€œI know everyone’s going to be watching me. I just . . .” The words won’t come, though. How can you put words to something you are unable to fail at—no matter what? The ghost of Amos sits in this room with me and I won’t let him down.
    â€œMay I tell you something your dad once told me?”
    I sit a little straighter. “Of course.” Dad never tells me anything of consequence unless it’s how to be a better soldier. I definitely want to hear what he told Rev back in the day.
    â€œI was a very green reverend back in Desert Storm. When soldiers would come in wounded or crying and I just got too overwhelmed—he would always tell me I was looking at the problem wrong. ‘Rev,’ he’d say”—Rev closes his eyes, a smile lighting up his face—“‘I don’t know who said this but I’m going to claim it until someone tells me otherwise. It goes: you are not a drop in the ocean. You are an entire ocean in a drop.’”
    My forehead crinkles up and I give Rev the