All I can remember is how she froze up, how one second she was the invincible warrior she’s always been and the next second she was spasming on the floor.

“It’s a neurodegenerative disease,” she explains, sitting on the bed across from me. “The doctors think it’s a result of a chemical attack on the village my mother lived in while she was pregnant.”

I struggle to find words. I want to have a nuanced reaction. I want to be concerned, supportive, but not overbearing. Pain forms a sentence before I can though.

“How long?”

“What?” she asks.

“How long have you known about this?” I ask.

She’s quiet for a long time, long enough for me to know the answer before it comes. “Since I joined the Academy. I found out during my physical.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. “We’re partners.”

“Because I didn’t want you to see me as broken,” she protested. “I didn’t want you to think I can’t fight.”

“Kayla, you can’t,” I say. “You almost died today! What happens if you have another episode in the middle of a fight? What if I can’t get to you in time? You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I’m dead anyway!” she snapped, louder and angrier and more raw than I’ve ever heard her. I freeze in shock, and she keeps yelling. “There is no cure for what I have. There is no treatment. I won’t live to see thirty no matter what I do. I don’t want to die in hospital bed, trapped inside my own body. I don’t want to die a vegetable. I want to die the way I lived. Fighting, protecting people, making a difference! I want to die a warrior.”

“Kayla, please…” I beg.

“Don’t,” she interrupts me. “Just don’t.”