At the academy graduation, my father scoffed under his breath, “Useless. She’ll quit like she always does.” I stood perfectly still at attention. Then Drill Sergeant Frey halted the ceremony, turned toward me, and raised his hand in a sharp salute. “Major,” he said, voice carrying across the field. “On extended assignment.” My father’s face drained of color.

Another laugh. Louder this time. I wanted to tell them I had already passed the first round.

I wanted to tell them that men twice my size had failed before lunch. I wanted to say the people interviewing me did not care whether I could shout. They cared whether I could listen, remember, endure, and disappear.

But the acceptance letter was hidden in my closet beneath winter sweaters no one ever touched.

So I smiled. Caleb leaned close as he passed me. “Don’t be so serious, Evie. Dad’s joking.”

That was the rule in our family. If it hurt me, it was a joke. If I reacted, I was dramatic.

I went back inside before my face could change. The kitchen was cool and dim. My phone buzzed on the counter.

Unknown number. Six words appeared. Report Tuesday. Pack light. Tell no one. I read it twice. Then I deleted it.