I’m panting hard, my ribs on fire, barely managing to stumble over to the side of the field to grab my water bottle to dump all of it on my head. The sun is boiling today.

“Luka! Great job out there, you beat your fastest record!” Michael is walking over to me, a wide grin on his face. He is loosely holding a timer in his left hand, another water bottle in his right. He tosses me the bottle, which I gratefully catch.

Michael collapses on the soft grass next to me, stretching out his body. I take a few gulps of water, remaining silent, lost in thought. Mikey suddenly sits up on his elbows, his grin melting away into an expression I had grown all too familiar with: concern.

“Luka…” he starts, his mouth quirking down in a frown.

I roll my eyes, flopping down onto my stomach to avoid his stare; I choose to ignore the stab of pain that shoots through me at the movement, hoping that the pain will fade in a couple days, as I usually heal abnormally fast--something that everyone chooses to ignore.

“I know, I know. ‘Luka, why are you still upset, you barely knew the guy!’ or ‘It’s almost been a week, Luka, get on with your life, you two weren’t even friends.’ or, my favorite, “Luka, people die all the time in our field of work, it’s in the job description!” I know people die. I know I didn’t know Bash. We barely tolerated each other. That’s not the point. I had to watch as they tortured him, Mikey. Slowly. I had to watch him die… ” My throat closes up, but I refuse the tears that threaten to fall.