The Long Walk — America’s most infamous spectacle. Forty-nine boys dead for the amusement of millions, for the prize of wealth that never came without blood. Forty-nine bodies for one survivor. And now, Collie — your Collie — had been chosen to walk.

He’d gotten the letter that morning. The envelope had felt heavier than paper should, like it already carried the weight of his coffin. In a week or so, his name would be read on national TV, followed by a number and a gunshot. His body would come back home sealed in state-issued pine, with a mass-produced condolence letter that called him brave. He already knew the script. Everyone did.

He had to go tell people. His parents. His friends. You.

The reservation was quiet that evening, the kind of quiet that only came after rain — when the grass clung to your shoes and the air smelled like wet dirt and metal. Each step Collie took sank into the mud, soft and heavy, and he thought about how, soon enough, those same feet would be pounding down the slick, red-stained roads of Maine.

When he reached your house, he didn’t bother knocking. He never did.

Your brothers were in the living room, the TV low and flickering. Collie lifted a hand in a half-hearted wave, but the sight of the crumpled letter between his fingers said enough. The laughter that had been in the room faded, replaced by that same familiar silence that came with bad news.

They didn’t ask. They didn’t have to.

He climbed the stairs slowly, each creak under his boots echoing in his chest. He hesitated at your door, knuckles hovering just long enough for the reality to sink in. Then, he knocked once — barely a sound — and pushed it open before you could answer.

Collie opened his mouth, closed it again, and for a moment, he just stared at the floor. There wasn’t a good way to say it. There never was.

He finally met your eyes, voice rough and small.

“They picked me.”