“Routes change.”
My voice belonged to me again. We continued walking for two minutes.
Then Amy asked, “Do you want to stop running with me?”
“No.”
“Do you want to bike to the meeting point early?”
“No.”
“Then easy pace.”
We resumed. The remaining eight miles passed without panic. That did not feel like victory. It felt like escape. I knew the difference.
At the eight-mile mark, I left Amy with Miguel, who joined for the final six. I collected the bike we had locked near the trail and rode toward the final meeting point. The route took me around the avoided intersection. I could have ridden through it alone. I did not. By the time Amy finished fourteen, I had built a complete explanation.
Traffic. Heat. Accumulated mileage. The five-mile warm-up. All contributing factors. No fabricated fact. Still not the material reason. Amy reached the meeting point tired and smiling. Miguel congratulated her pacing. Her knee remained stable. She had completed fourteen miles. I should have been entirely present for that. Instead, I was replaying the turn. Amy hugged me. I held her.
“Fourteen,” she said.
“You did it.”
“The final miles were difficult.”
“You stayed honest.”
“I walked twice.”
“Good.”
She pulled back.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
Miguel was loading his bag into a car. Public enough to postpone.
“Later.”
Amy checked her watch.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
We had agreed difficult information should be disclosed before it became urgent. A few hours was not avoidance. Probably. She nodded.
“Tonight.”
Rose did not allow me a few hours. She found me in the physical therapy room fifteen minutes after Amy left.
“You changed the route.”
It was not a question.
