Chapter 1

The first week of freshman year, and the ROTC cadets were out on our field training exercise.

I fought through the cramps and the heatstroke as long as I could before I collapsed on the ground.

Ethan — my boyfriend, and the upperclassman cadet officer running the exercise — didn't so much as glance my way. Instead, he handed the only rest slot of the day to Chloe, who wasn't even remotely in trouble.

"Chloe can't handle this kind of humidity. As for you — cut the act. Get up and fall back in."

Chloe's voice came out soft and pouty.

"Eth, I just saw her on the GroupMe chat, betting the others she'd fake-faint to weasel out of the three-mile ruck today."

Ethan's expression curdled into disappointment. He grabbed me by the arm, hauled me off the ground, and dragged me toward the metal equipment shed baking in the full sun.

"Since you've got so much free time on your hands, you can go inside and re-inventory every piece of gear in there. I've clearly been too easy on you — that's why you think basic training is some kind of game."

Inside the tin shed, the temperature was pushing 120 degrees Fahrenheit.

I crumpled to the floor, pounding weakly at the metal door someone had bolted shut from the outside.

"Ethan, I swear I'm not faking — I have von Willebrand disease — please, help me—"

"Von Willebrand? That report you sent me last night? You think I don't know you forged it because you're jealous of Chloe?" He gave a cold laugh and walked off without looking back.

"It's real… it's real…" I whispered, my voice gone.

Blood kept pouring from between my legs.

Somewhere in that hemorrhaging haze, my heart quietly stopped.

...

When my eyes opened again, I was drifting in midair, staring down at Ethan.

He was holding a parasol over Chloe, his tone perfectly even.

"That's what I get for going soft on her. She only pulls this crap because I let her. Today she can learn the hard way."

"Sir — it's really bad in there. Maybe I could just pass her this bottle of electrolytes?"

Tyler, the freshman squad leader, held up an unopened Gatorade and a sleeve of Pedialyte tablets, edging up nervously beside Ethan.

Ethan turned and looked down at him.

"PT isn't playtime. Rules are rules."

"If she's got the nerve to bet in the group chat that she'll fake a faint, she gets to live with the consequences."

"If any of you feels that sorry for her, you're welcome to switch places and get locked in there yourself."

The training field went dead silent.

A few of the freshmen who'd been about to speak up ducked their heads and stopped breathing.

Chloe, tucked in behind Ethan, gave a sudden little gasp.

She pressed a hand to her chest, brow knitting delicately, and started taking exaggerated gulps of air.

"Eth, please don't be angry — you're scaring me…"

She let herself sag against his arm.

"Honestly, Emmy — she's fine. Why does she have to make such a scene?"

"For all we know, she's curled up in there right now, catching a cross-breeze and taking a nap."

"You're all just too soft on her. She doesn't deserve it."

Ethan glanced down at Chloe and gave her back a reassuring pat.

"Don't worry. I've got a handle on this."

He turned his head and let his gaze slide over to the sealed metal door.

Then he went and dug up a heavier U-lock, and picked up a rusted iron rod off the ground for good measure.

He shoved the rod straight through the metal ring on the outside of the door handle, wedging the door tight against its frame.

Then he threaded the U-lock through the handle and the outer ring, looping the chain around twice for good measure.

I floated above it all, watching him in silence.

Inside the tin shed, the temperature had already climbed past 125 degrees.

That body — my body — was slumped in a warped, twisted heap in the corner behind the door.

Sticky, dark red blood was still weeping steadily from between my thighs.

The iron tang of it fermented in the closed, superheated air until it made you gag.

I stretched out a translucent hand, trying to grab Ethan's wrist where it rested on the lock.

I wanted to tell him: Ethan. I'm actually dead.

But my fingers passed clean through his arm.

Nothing.

Ethan finished with the lock, dusted his hands off, and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

He opened iMessage. The screen stopped on our thread.

The last message was the photo I'd sent him the night before — a lab report from the hospital.

Right there in bold black type: Von Willebrand Disease — Severe.

Ethan stared at the image for two seconds.

He gave a small, contemptuous snort.

Then he pressed and held the photo and, without a moment's hesitation, tapped Delete.

"Bad luck," he muttered under his breath, and stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

Then he turned to face the freshmen, his voice low but pitched just loud enough for every last one of them to hear.

"Until training's over today, no one goes near that shed."

"She needs to bake the crazy out of her skull."

"When she's ready to apologize like she means it, I'll let her out."

He was so certain I was just throwing a tantrum.

So certain that if he applied a little pressure, I'd cave the way I always did — head bowed, voice small, begging his forgiveness.

But Ethan — the dead don't apologize.