She reduced her pace by an amount detectable only to advanced equipment. During the third interval, her breathing sharpened. During the fourth, her shoulders rose and her face went pale.
“Walk,” I said.
“Twenty seconds.”
“Now.”
“I can finish.”
I stepped into her path. She stopped rather than collide with me, furious and breathing too fast.
“That was unnecessary.”
“So was ignoring me.”
“I was almost done.”
“You were dizzy.”
“I was temporarily adjusting.”
“That is dizziness with corporate language.”
I sat her on a bench, checked for pain and nausea, and handed her water. Color returned slowly.
“I could have completed the minute,” she said.
“Yes. Badly.”
“It still would have been complete.”
“That is not the goal.”
“It was the assigned interval.”
“The assignment changed when your body did.”
The anger in her face gave way to something quieter.
“I was embarrassed,” she said.
“About what?”
“Yesterday. The treadmill. The plan. Everyone knows I registered for something I may not be capable of doing.”
“Your ex included.”
She looked toward the track. “She expects me to quit.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Then don’t. But finishing an unsafe interval is not the same thing as staying.”
Amy pressed the bottle between both hands.
“I don’t want to begin badly.”
