“Thirty seconds.”
“Forty-five.”
“Agreed.”
We walked. Amy stared straight ahead.
“I hate this distance.”
“Allowed.”
“I hate everyone who has run it.”
“Personal.”
“I hate you.”
“Romantic.”
At forty-five seconds, she began running again. The transition was ugly. Still successful. Mile sixteen arrived. Two remained. The distance was understandable. Also terrible. Amy’s face had gone inward. I stayed quiet.
At sixteen point four, she said, “Tell me why.”
“Why what?”
“Why I am doing this.”
The dangerous question. I could say Evelyn. The marathon. Proof.
Instead, I asked, “Why are you?”
She breathed. Steps. Traffic. River.
“I chose it.”
“Yes.”
“I keep choosing it.”
“Yes.”
“Even when no one sees.”
“Yes.”
“Then that.”
“That.”
She continued. At mile seventeen, the community appeared. Carol. Janine. Blake. Lola on a scooter beside Gloria. Simone. Several members from my classes. They had positioned themselves along the final mile with signs and water. Amy slowed in surprise.
“What is this?”
“Support.”
“You organized it?”
“Tessa.”
