Jane clenched her jaw as fireworks exploded throughout the neighborhood. She slammed the bedroom door and collapsed into herself, squeezing her eyes shut. It didn’t help. The unwanted visions sprang to life, becoming the faces of the men and women she’d served beside — a stark reminder of the ceremony her superior commanded her to attend.

The people around her spoke of heroic efforts, lives saved, missions won. She’d sat there, unable to breathe. Mouth dry, vision blurring, she’d flinched at every snap of the camera. Recoiled against the pop of flashbulbs. The microphone squealed, and she ducked while the crowd chuckled. She’d saluted with a trembling hand, while the President stood close enough that his breath blew against her cheek. The medal she didn’t want glinted in the sun, and she forced herself to remain still as the weight of the cold brass star he pinned on her chest pierced her heart. At least they hadn’t expected a speech.

Sweat trickled down Jane’s back as she gasped for air, desperate to take her mind on vacation. Someplace without sand. A bottle rocket screeched, followed by the thump and swish of a Roman candle. Someplace quiet.

You did your best. Saved who you could. She repeated the mantra her therapist swore would ease the guilt. Not that it did. Nor did the breathing exercises, but she tried them anyway. It’d give her something meaningless to complain about at her next appointment.

Her heart rate slowed, shoulders relaxing. She’d survived another year.

Word: medal | action: pinning