“Walk now.”
“We have forty seconds.”
I waited. She slowed.
“I could have finished the interval.”
“And made the next one worse.”
“I need to continue while tired.”
“You are continuing. Walking is not stopping.”
Her face disagreed.
She looked toward the lake through the trees. A family passed in the opposite direction, two children riding scooters while their mother carried a small dog. Amy waited until they passed.
“What if I cannot do twenty-six miles?” she asked.
She asked quietly. Not a challenge. Not a request for reassurance. Fear. I could have said she would. Clients liked certainty. People wanted coaches to speak as if outcomes could be guaranteed with enough confidence. I had believed that once. I had told myself I would finish the first marathon because I had trained. I had told myself I would finish the second because I had suffered enough not to fail again. Bodies did not care about vows. Neither did panic.
“I don’t know yet,” I said.
Amy’s stride shortened. My uncertainty had hurt her. I continued before she could turn it into judgment.
“I know you can do more than you could three weeks ago. I know you listen better now. I know you’re building strength. I know you keep showing up.”
“That is not the same as twenty-six miles.”
“No.”
“Then how do people commit to it?”
“One week at a time.”
“That sounds like an inspirational slogan.”
“It’s annoyingly true.”
She looked down at the trail.
“I need more certainty.”
“You cannot provide it.”
“No.”
My no stayed between us. Amy’s hand moved toward the watch, then stopped.
“What can you provide?” she asked.
Her request felt larger than the run.
“A plan,” I said. “Honesty. Someone who notices when you’re pushing for the wrong reason.”
“And someone who stays?”
A familiar pressure gathered under my ribs. The first-mile question: Stay with me.
