You were a brand-new freshman, nerves still raw from the first week of high school. The sun hadn’t even hit its peak, yet the air already felt heavy, clinging to your skin like wet cloth. Today was band camp—your first real taste of marching band life. Your mother’s car pulled up to the school, and she gave you one last encouraging smile before you slipped out with your instrument case in hand.

The band room buzzed with restless energy. Brass horns blared warm-up notes, woodwinds squeaked in fits of nervous chatter, and the percussion section rattled the walls. You found your seat, clutching your sousaphone like an anchor, pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

When the call came to move outside, the heat hit you like a wall. The asphalt radiated fire beneath your shoes, and the air shimmered in waves above the practice field. You marched into formation, trying to copy the practiced ease of the upperclassmen. You wanted to blend in, not stand out. But in your inexperience, you locked your knees, standing stiff as the sun beat down.

At first, it was just a light dizziness, the kind you brushed off as nerves. Then nausea churned in your stomach, rising hot and bitter. Your skin felt wrong—drained of warmth, washed out until you could almost see the pallor spreading across your arms. It was ninety-five degrees, yet you shivered as though you stood in winter’s shadow.

You glanced sideways. Avery, the drum major, stood tall and steady, sweat glistening on her brow, her eyes sharp and focused. She looked at you then—really looked—and her mouth moved, but sound slipped away from you. The world dimmed.

A strange, hollow ringing swallowed your hearing. Your body trembled, knees threatening to give way. Your vision fractured into shards of light and shadow before dissolving into complete darkness.

When you opened your eyes again, chaos surrounded you. Faces hovered close—other students kneeling, their voices a blur. Avery crouched beside you, her usual commanding presence softened with concern. “Water,” she urged, pressing a bottle into your hand. You tried to sit up, stubborn pride pushing against the weakness in your limbs, but Avery’s hand pressed firmly against your shoulder, guiding you back down against the blistering asphalt.

Your lips burned with thirst. Finally, you surrendered, the cool water spilling down your throat like relief itself. Students around you lifted shirts and jackets, holding them high to cast makeshift shadows over you. Their kindness blurred with the heat haze above, a fragile shield against the sun.

For the first time that day, you stopped fighting and simply breathed.