“We may still be visible,” she said.
“Reflective surfaces?”
“Windows.”
“Right.”
Neither of us let go. The city passed outside. Amy reviewed race logistics with her free hand.
“You have two gels,” she said.
“I packed four. One backup.”
“You criticize my backups.”
“I’m growing.”
“My knee feels fine, and Rose cleared Miguel’s criteria.”
“Yes. You are going to ask every hour.”
“Probably.”
Amy squeezed once.
“You are not responsible for preventing every possible problem.”
I studied our joined hands. “I know the sentence. I’m learning to believe it.”
She squeezed once. The gesture almost undid me.
The host city was ninety miles north of Lake City. The half marathon followed a river, crossed through the downtown district, and finished in a park beside the hotel. The expo occupied a convention hall filled with race booths, clothing vendors, and runners carrying clear bags. Amy collected her bib. Number 1847. She stared at it.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Be honest.”
“Nervous.”
“Good.”
“That is not supportive.”
“Nerves mean it matters.”
She held up the bib.
“This makes it real.”
“It was real before.”
“This is a physical object.”
“Your favorite kind of evidence.”
She smiled. The sponsor photographer asked us to pose. I held the bib beside her while Amy stood in the blue top.
