“Then that is the work.”
The phrase made me angry. Work implied process. Time. Repetition. I wanted one clean act. Cross the intersection. Run the marathon. Finish. Become a person whose history no longer needed explanation. Rose saw the anger.
“Failure isn’t an infection you sweat out,” she said.
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You are training like it is.”
“I’m within the plan.”
“Physically.”
The qualification landed.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Walk the intersection tomorrow. No running, stopwatch, or race decision.”
My ribs locked. “I have a class.”
“Blake will cover it.”
“You arranged this already?”
“I know you.”
The trap had been arranged.
I hated competent people. I sighed. “Not fine.”
“Still coming?”
“Yes.”
Rose made a note.
“Tell Amy tonight, and ask her not to come. You need to experience the fear without making her responsible for regulating it.”
She was right. I disliked it.
“You’ll be there?”
“Yes.”
“Less attractive.”
“Medically useful.”
I stood.
At the door, Rose said, “Dani.”
I turned.
“Changing the route was not failure.”
“Intellectually.”
