“Your eighteen.”
She smiled.
“I’ll see you at twelve.”
“I’ll be there.”
Truth.
I biked to the mile-twelve meeting point. The route allowed time for coffee. I did not buy one because Amy would smell it and object to caffeine inequality. Instead, I waited beneath a row of trees with water, spare gels, and the sign Lola had made:
EIGHTEEN IS JUST NINE TWICE
Mathematically accurate. Emotionally questionable. Amy appeared at eleven point eight miles beside Miguel’s bike. Her form had changed. Shoulders tighter. Stride heavier. Still safe. I held up the sign. She laughed. Then immediately looked angry about wasting breath.
“Lola?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell her the statement is unhelpful.”
“She’ll be devastated.”
“Good.”
Miguel stopped.
“Effort?”
“Seven,” Amy said.
“What’s true?”
“Seven and a half.”
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Fuel?”
“On schedule.”
Miguel marked the plan.
“The final six are about patience.”
Amy turned from the plan to me.
“You’re not joining?”
“Not yet.”
Disappointment crossed her face. The plan said I would wait until mile fifteen. I had agreed because Amy needed support distributed. I also needed not to turn the run into a reenactment of every milestone.
“Tessa at thirteen,” I said. “Rose at fourteen. Me at fifteen.”
“That is excessive.”
