“I’ll assess her.”
“That is how taking a client begins.”
“It is also how rejecting one begins.”
“Excellent. Six a.m. tomorrow.”
They reached for the folder, but I held on.
“I need the full medical intake.”
“It will be uploaded this afternoon.”
“And I’m not promising the marathon until I see her move.”
“Of course.”
“And if she’s beginning from zero, we adjust the goal if necessary.”
“Agreed.”
Blake released the folder. As I walked toward the training desk, I opened Amy’s document again. Her projected first-week mileage assumed she could already run three miles continuously. I laughed under my breath. This was going to hurt her feelings. At the bottom of the page, she had included a list of questions for her coach. The first six were about training methodology, injury prevention, and credentials. The seventh read:
How many marathons have you personally completed?
My smile disappeared. For a moment, the gym around me blurred into heat and crowd noise. Mile twenty-two. A barricade beneath my palm. A volunteer asking whether I could hear her. Rose kneeling beside me after the second attempt, one hand onmy shoulder, telling me to stop apologizing. I closed the folder. Amy’s question had a simple answer. I had completed none. I had started two.
I knew every hill, turn, bridge, aid station, and ugly final mile of the Lake City course. I had trained through summer heat and freezing rain. I had studied pacing, fueling, recovery, injury, and the thousand small decisions that could destroy a race. I could teach Amy how to prepare. I could probably get her to the finish line. That was the problem. Helping someone else finish might prove I still belonged near the marathon.
Or it might prove I was exactly what I feared: a woman who knew how to describe courage while standing safely outside it. I tucked the folder beneath my arm. Tomorrow at six, Amy Price would arrive expecting an experienced marathon coach. I had until then to decide how much truth she needed.
Chapter Three
The Treadmill Incident
Amy
At five twenty-seven on Tuesday, May sixth, Iron & Ivy had the atmosphere of a private club for people who considered sleep a character flaw. The gym occupied a renovated warehouse at the edge of the arts district, all exposed brick, black steel, and windows tall enough to make dawn feel theatrical. Warm light spilled across polished concrete floors. Music played somewhere beyond the reception desk, cheerful in a way that seemed personally aggressive.
I stood inside the entrance holding a new gym bag and reconsidered several major life choices. A woman behind the front desk looked up from her computer.
“Morning,” she said brightly.
The brightness confirmed that she could not be trusted.
“Good morning. I have a six o’clock appointment.”
“Name?”
“Amy Price.”
She typed. “First session with Dani.”
“Yes.”
The name meant nothing to me yet. It would have been helpful if it had come with a warning label.
The receptionist found my appointment and smiled. “You’re early.”
