A car passed in the opposite lane.
“Some.”
“You want to change the route?”
“No.”
I answered too fast. Amy slowed. I matched her. The intersection approached. Mile twenty-two in the marathon. Not mile seven of this run. My body did not understand the difference. Heat gathered beneath my skin. The old scene appeared over the present one. Barricade. Volunteer vest. My hands numb. The conviction that I was dying. The shame when I realized I was not. Amy moved closer.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.”
“Truth?”
The pharmacy window reflected us. My stride shortened.
“Not fine.”
She accepted that without alarm.
“What do you need?”
A plan. Space. A joke. Permission.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
“Change streets?”
Maybe. No. If I turned away, the intersection would remain undefeated. That thought was punishment. I recognized it. Rose’s question. What is this run for? Not redemption. Not proof.
“Walk,” I said.
We slowed. Amy did not touch me. She waited. I named five things I could see. Four I could feel. Three I could hear. The panic edge held. Did not grow. The intersection was twenty feet away. I could continue through it. I could also leave. Both were choices.
“What do you want?” Amy asked.
Fear wanted a different question. It was what I wanted.
“I want to finish your run safely.”
“Then what helps?”
“Different street.”
Amy turned left with me—no disappointment, no interpretation—one block before the intersection. The relief came immediately. Then shame followed. I hated that sequence. Amy checked her watch.
“This adds point three miles.”
“Sorry.”
“We adjust.”
“It changes your route.”
