“You’re not fake.”
Her certainty went directly through me. I had not told her the full shape of my old shame. She did not need it. Children often found the answer without requiring the explanation.
“Neither are you,” I said.
She frowned.
“I know.”
Of course.
The starting area occupied downtown before sunrise. Floodlights washed the streets white. Music played too loudly. Runners moved through security, checked bags, used portable toilets, and adjusted equipment they had already adjusted at home. I wore black shorts, a red charity singlet, and old shoes rather than new ones. Nothing untested. Rose met me near the Run Forward tent. She wore physical-therapy credentials and a jacket with the race logo. The race medical captain had already received the clearance letter and withdrawal plan; Rose was my designated support clinician, not the final authority to keep me on course.
“Symptoms?” she asked.
“Panic at home. Three out of ten. Resolved to one.”
“Current?”
“One.”
“Knee?”
“Zero.”
“Sleep?”
“Four hours.”
She looked displeased.
“I rested yesterday.”
“That is not sleep.”
“Correct. Breakfast?”
“Toast, eggs, water.”
“Caffeine?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She checked the plan. Run two minutes. Walk one minute. From the beginning. No pace target. Medical check at mile twelve. Mandatory pause at twenty-one. If panic remained atseven after grounding, judgment became unsafe, or knee pain reached four, withdraw. I had signed. I hated every line. I trusted it.
“Do you have the withdrawal card?” Rose asked.
I pulled it from my belt. The card listed the criteria and the phrase:
Stopping safely completes the decision.
Amy had not written it. It sounded like her.
“Good,” Rose said.
“What if I feel amazing?”
