“You follow the plan.”
“Hostile.”
“What if you feel terrible?”
“I follow the plan.”
“Good.”
She looked toward the corrals.
“Have you seen Amy?”
“No.”
Truth. I had looked. I had not found her. Rose noticed.
“Her race.”
“Yes.”
“Your race. No intersection promises.”
“I understand.”
“Truth?”
I exhaled.
“I am going to want to keep going at twenty-two even if I shouldn’t.”
“Yes.”
“I will use the criteria.”
“Yes.”
“I may hate you.”
“Expected.”
She hugged me. Rose did not hug casually. The contact felt like clinical reassurance and friendship returning in separate layers.
“I’m proud of the work,” she said.
“Not the race?”
“The work.”
The distinction mattered.
“Thank you.”
She stepped back.
“I’ll see you at twelve.”
“If I’m slow?”
