“What’s true?”
“No.”
“Tomorrow.”
I left.
Amy came to my apartment at seven. She wore office clothes and carried takeout. The certification spreadsheet remained open on the table beside the old bibs. I had not put them away. Amy noticed. She placed the food in the kitchen.
“Tell me.”
No preamble. No opportunity to delay. I sat. She sat across from me.
“The intersection was mile twenty-two,” I said. “The place where the first panic attack ended my race.”
Amy’s face softened.
“You knew the route went there.”
“Yes.”
“Why not ask Miguel to change it?”
“I wanted to prove I could run through.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
Her disappointment hurt.
“I changed the route before the intersection,” I continued. “I told you I needed a different street. That part was honest.”
“After saying traffic caused it.”
“Yes.”
“And after running five miles to feel stronger.”
I stared.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“I’m sorry.”
Amy folded her hands.
“Your choice to approach the intersection belonged to you,” Amy said. “My fourteen-mile run did not belong to your exposure plan.”
The categories were exact. I had kept treating them as one event because our routes overlapped.
“No,” I said. “It did not.”
“Were you using my training to stage the exposure?”
“Not as a written plan. I saw the route and let wanting decide before I told anyone.”
