She looked down.
“Your knee.”
Our legs had touched. I had not noticed.
“Good.”
Her breathing began to slow.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I dreamed I missed the finish.”
“Okay.”
“The course was empty. Everyone had left.”
“It was a dream.”
“Intellectually.”
“Your body doesn’t yet.”
She closed her eyes. I guided her through another breath. Long inhale. Longer exhale. Again. The shaking eased. Amy leaned toward me. I opened my arms. She moved into them. No request needed this time. I held her against my chest. Her face pressed into my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No.”
“I woke you.”
“Stop.”
“I am supposed to be ready.”
“You are.”
“This is not ready.”
“This is human.”
Her arms tightened around my waist. I rested my cheek against her hair. For several minutes, we remained that way. The pillow barrier had collapsed completely.
“I dreamed you were at the finish,” she whispered.
“I was.”
“But when I reached it, you were gone.”
I tightened my arms around her.
“I’m here.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“After?”
