She steered the car onto the wet asphalt of the state highway.

The tires hissed against the flooded pavement.

“Tell me about the promotions,” I said, my voice flat. “Tell me how they did it.”

Mara kept her eyes on the road, her hands tight on the steering wheel.

“When you applied to West Point, your physical examinations went through a specific contractor,” she said.

“I had a shoulder separation in high school,” I said. “It was on my medical record.”

“It was deleted,” Mara said. “Your mother paid the orthopedic surgeon to alter the digital files.”

I looked down at my hands, remembering the hours of physical therapy.

“I passed the physical fitness tests on my own,” I said. “I ran the miles.”

“You did,” Mara said. “But your competition was managed.”

She glanced at the rearview mirror before continuing.

“Two of the top candidates from your district suddenly withdrew their applications,” she said. “One was offered a fully funded scholarship to MIT by a shell company your mother controlled.”

“And the other?” I asked.