I opened the Lake City Marathon website. General entry closed Monday, May 5. The race was Sunday, September 21, 2025—roughly twenty weeks away. The training guide assumed a consistent running base and the ability to run three comfortable miles. I possessed neither. I also possessed a paid entry fee, a public promise, and an uncomfortable suspicion that careful did not have to mean afraid. I registered. Tessa watched me enter her as the emergency contact.
“Don’t make me regret giving you my phone number.”
“You live with me.”
“Still.”
I submitted the payment. A confirmation page filled the screen.
WELCOME TO THE LAKE CITY MARATHON.
Tessa leaned her hip against the table.
“Okay,” she said. “You did it.”
“I registered.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You’ve made the decision.”
The satisfaction came slowly. It was not joy, exactly. More like the moment after stepping onto an elevator before the doors closed, when it was still possible to pretend you could get off. My confirmation email arrived. I opened it. The first paragraph congratulated me. The second suggested booking accommodation early. The third included a link titled First-Time Marathoner Resources. I clicked. The guide recommended beginning formal training with a consistent weekly running base and the ability to complete three comfortable miles. I stared at the sentence. Tessa read it over my shoulder.
“How many miles can you run?” she asked.
I closed the laptop.
“That depends on how strictly we define running.”
Chapter Two
The Trainer Who Doesn’t Run
Dani
By six fifteen on Monday, May fifth, I had already been threatened by a seventy-two-year-old woman with a resistance band.
“You said thirty seconds,” Carol informed me.
“I said forty-five.”
Carol narrowed her eyes, plank still perfect. Around her, eleven members trembled over exercise mats while the clock counted down.
“You are stronger than your desire to complain,” I said.
“My desire to complain is extremely strong,” someone called from the back.
The timer beeped. Everyone dropped.
Carol rolled onto her back and pointed the resistance band at me. “I know where you park.”
“Hydrate before committing a felony.”
She smiled despite herself. I moved through the room, checking faces and body language. Most people were tired in the normal way. A few were performing death for dramatic effect. Near the mirrors, a new member named Janine sat back on her heels, staring at the floor. She had joined two weeks ago and apologized every time she needed to modify an exercise. Today, she had fallen behind during the second round and had not looked up since.
I crouched beside her.
