“Good.”
“Belt.”
“Yes.”
“Air.”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Fear.”
“Fear counts.”
The acceptance changed something. Fear did not have to be removed to proceed. It only had to be included. My breathing slowed enough to deepen. Panic six. I held up six fingers. Rose moved closer but remained outside touching range.
“Good. Continue grounding.”
Amy asked for three sounds. Cowbell. Shoes. Her voice. Two smells. Sweat.
Orange slices. One thing I wanted. Amy had moved beyond the standard exercise. “Finish.”
Finishemerged immediately. Amy’s mouth tightened—not disapproval, but recognition of the danger inside it.
“Why?”
I had answered it in therapy: To start honestly. To experience the race. Not erase. Not prove.
“I want to see what happens,” I said.
Amy’s next breath stopped. The six-mile answer. Curiosity. Choice. Rose stepped forward and reported to the medical captain while still addressing me.
“Panic level?”
“Five.”
“Knee?”
“Two.”
“Dizziness?”
“No.”
“Orientation?”
“Lake City Marathon. Mile twenty-two. Sunday.”
“Decision?”
The far curb remained across the intersection. I had not crossed.
“I want to walk to the curb.”
“Not race decision,” Rose said. “Checkpoint decision.”
“I want to walk to the curb.”
