“Sharp?”
“Surface.”
“Gait altered?”
“Minor.”
“We stop and patch.”
“We’re close.”
The phrase alarmed me. Close had become a reason to ignore damage before. I stopped. Dani stopped.
“We patch.”
Dani agreed without argument. We moved to the curb. I took the spare blister patch from my vest. The one from the expo package had been mine. This one came from my backup supplies. Preparedness became kindness. I knelt. Dani laughed weakly.
“You’re putting on my shoe.”
“You put on mine at Summit Sports.”
“That was hotter.”
“This is medically necessary.”
“Still kind of hot.”
“Your judgment is impaired.”
I protected the skin and retied the shoe. Dani held out her hand. I took it to stand. Neither of us released. We walked back onto the course holding hands, practicality turning into choice. At mile twenty-five, Tessa waited alone. She saw our hands and lowered the sign she had been waving.
“Decision?” she asked.
I checked. One point two miles. The finish existed near enough that the crowd noise had changed. Not visible. Audible. Dani met my eyes.
“Run when you want,” she said. “I can walk.”
“Panic?”
“Three.”
“Knee?”
“Two.”
“Foot?”
“Annoying.”
“The honest answer?”
“Safe.”
I told Tessa, “I’m finishing with her.”
She gave no warning or reminder of hurt. She trusted the choice because it was mine.
“Then finish,” she said.
