“I’m consistent.”
She did not smile. We sat in her office on Thursday afternoon. A plant occupied the windowsill and appeared healthier than anyone discussing panic. My charity entry remained active. I had not withdrawn. I had not completed a standard marathon build. I had, however, maintained a weekly base of twenty-two to thirty miles for three months, completed disclosed long runs of twelve and fourteen miles, and carried years of prior marathon training. Rose was willing to supervise one sixteen-mile time-on-feet session during the coming week, followed by a taper, if my therapist supported the panic plan and a sports-medicine physician cleared the physical risk. Rose could assess my kneeand function; she could not turn a physical-therapy relationship into total medical authority. No twenty-miler. No late mileage rescue.
That history made a conservative finish physically plausible, not automatically wise. Possible had become a weapon before. Possible was how I had reached the second start line injured.
“What does return mean?” my therapist asked again.
“To stand at the start without lying.”
“To whom?”
“Everyone.”
“More specifically.”
“Myself.”
My answer felt dramatic. Also true.
“What would make starting honest?”
“No promise to finish.”
“Would you accept a planned withdrawal?”
“No.”
“Then you are still attaching worth to the outcome.”
“I can want to finish without making it worth.”
“Can you?”
The plant remained smugly alive.
“I don’t know.”
“Good.”
She had strange standards. She continued.
“What would you do if Amy never knew whether you raced?”
It hurt.
“I would still want to try.”
“Truth?”
I waited. My answer did not change.
“Yes.”
Not to win her back. Not only.
“What if she knew and did not return?”
“I would still want to try.”
