“I’m here.”
Her shoulders lowered. We resumed.
At mile four and a half, Amy stopped talking. Her stride reached forward, her hands closed, and she checked the watch three times in twenty seconds.
“Tell me why you hate bananas.”
“I dislike their texture.” Her breathing broke the sentence apart. “I cannot talk.”
“Then walk.”
“I am almost at five.”
“That is not a safety criterion.”
She kept running until I used the language she trusted. “The plan says walk. Immediate safety exception. Miguel gets the note and decides what changes.”
Anger sharpened her face, but she slowed. We walked for two minutes while her breathing settled.
“You stopped me because I was doing badly.”
“Because you were working too hard. Do you want to stop at five?”
“No.”
“Evelyn is not here. Neither are the cameras. I will be proud of five.”
She went quiet. “I want six.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know what happens after five.”
There. Curiosity, not proof.
“We continue easy. You walk when I say.”
Her mouth tightened. “Yes.”
We started running.
The fifth mile took longer. Amy stopped watching average pace while I told nonmotivational stories about teaching in an inside-out shirt, Carol hiding my whistle, and Blake rejecting Running for People Who Hate Running as insufficiently aspirational. Amy’s laughter broke into her breathing, but it helped.
At five point six miles, she said, “I am never doing a marathon.”
“Noted.”
“I will withdraw Monday.”
“Okay.”
Amy turned her head, offended enough to forget her fatigue for one step. “You agree?”
“You’re allowed to withdraw.”
“You are supposed to convince me not to.”
“No.”
