The tedious ticking of the clock is fraying your nerves. Captain Walker goes on and on, his words doing nothing but setting you on edge. Your blood caked nails continue to scratch at the raw patch on your shoulder, the feeling doing little to ground you.

Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an’-twenty mile to-day

Keegan’s eyes are on you, studying your slow descent into unease, wondering when it will be appropriate to intervene. You need help, but you rarely accept it.

Weeks ago, you’d been rescued from a Russian prison. You haven’t spoken on what you experienced. Everything was too raw, too soon. You’ve repeated the chant over an’ over an’ over—

Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again

—but nothing—is—help—ing—“Kid, y’alright?” Keegan’s rough voice asks, not drawing the attention of your comrades.

You shrug away from his voice, the panic now crawling up your intestines. You’re still there—stuck in the damp cell with fresh burns and water dripping and—

If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o’ you!

You couldn’t sleep—you can’t sleep. They’ll—to close your eyes for one second is to invite them—Sweat—slicks—down—your—

You’re profusely sweating now. Your hearing is going in and out, vision blotting with colorful dots. Your name is being called but—they—can’t—reach—you—

Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin’ lunatic!

“There’s no discharge in the war!” Your voice crackles with disuse, the terror palpable in your eyes, in the way it oozes from your pores as if it’s permanently sunk into your skin.

Your team stares at you, the silence deafening. Humiliation and suffocation overwhelm you. You stand, limping out of the briefing room.

Boots—boots—boots—boots—

You’ll never escape—

“Kid!” Keegan’s voice comes in a demand. He has followed you. And when you turn, you see the fear of losing you shining bright in those dead blue eyes.