My name is Avery Collins, and if you had seen me the morning I stepped into the Naval Medical Center in San Diego, you probably would have misjudged me.
Most people did.
I’m not physically imposing—five-foot-five, lean, nothing about me that screams battlefield experience. My hair is always tied back tight, my expression neutral. I don’t waste time explaining myself, especially not to men who have already made up their minds before I speak. On paper, I was assigned as a Navy medic attached to special operations. In person, I looked like someone who handled forms, not trauma.
I never corrected them. Underestimation has its advantages.
Officially, I was there for a post-deployment evaluation. Unofficially, I needed medical clearance to return to my team. Three months earlier, I’d come back from Syria with stitches, a concussion, and an arm that felt like it had been torn apart and stitched back together by fire itself. I didn’t leave the field because I wanted to—I left because my body forced me to.
Commander Ethan Rowe was assigned to evaluate me.