Twist
I go Waning into Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, in Quebec, right outside the sprawling campus of the Canadian Forces Leadership and Recruit School. It’s cold, because it’s Canada. I grit my teeth, try to steady my breathing with a slow pull in through my nose. On the back of my tongue is the icy tang of the Richelieu River, from where it flows in the distance, down into the States. I want to go with it, anywhere else but here.
The grounds are bustling, new recruits arriving, a sea of green and black camo. With a hiss, I glamour my suit into their combat uniform. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I wonder if it’s too late to pitch myself into the Richelieu. Putting one foot in front of the other, I lead my way across campus, away from the siren song of the water.
I pass the check-in table
