Her controlledokaymade me nervous.
“Okay?”
“Complete the assessment.”
I waited for the argument. She stood.
“Where do we begin?”
I had expected stubbornness. Compliance was sometimes harder.
The assessment began with ankle range, hip rotation, squats, lunges, and single-leg balance. Amy followed instructions so exactly that every movement became a performance review. When I asked for five repetitions, she completed five and froze.
“You can breathe,” I said during a squat hold.
“I am breathing.”
“Your face disagrees.”
She could hold the position longer. That was not the information I needed. I brought her up, checked her ankle mobility, then moved to balance. Her right side was steady. On the left, her foot touched down at twelve seconds.
“That one doesn’t count.”
“It counts.”
“A second trial would improve reliability.”
“A second trial would let you prove something I don’t need proved.”
Her gaze lifted to mine. Then she put her shoes back on while I noted the asymmetry and the larger finding: decent control, limited endurance, and no instinct for easy effort.
“What did you write?”
“That you’re competitive.”
“That is not a physical measurement.”
“It affects all of them.”
She tied her laces with unnecessary force. I inspected the track before she caught me smiling.
Strength testing confirmed what the mobility work suggested. Amy had decent control, limited endurance, and no sense of easy effort. She followed every instruction exactly until following it conflicted with proving she could do more. On the indoor track, I assigned four rounds of one minute running and ninety seconds walking.
“That is ten minutes,” she said.
“Excellent arithmetic.”
“My plan says ten continuous minutes.”
“Your plan met you yesterday.”
She began too fast.
“Slower.”
“This is comfortable.”
“It won’t be.”
