“That is poor coaching.”
“Manipulation is poor coaching.” I kept my voice easy, matching the reduced pace she had finally accepted.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“My legs hurt.”
The complaint came thinner now. I watched her gait instead of her face. “General fatigue or sharp pain?”
“Fatigue.”
“Good.”
“It is not good.”
“It’s safe.”
Amy wiped sweat from her upper lip with the back of one hand. “That is a low standard.”
“Today, safe is excellent.”
Five point eight. Amy’s face had gone inward. Every runner did that eventually. The world narrowed to breath, step, effort. I stopped talking. I stayed. At five point nine, she found enough air for a question.
“How far?”
I checked.
“Point one.”
“How long?”
“Don’t calculate.”
“I need to know.”
“One lap of the indoor track.”
Her shoulders loosened. A distance she understood. She had run it beside me many times.
“Stay with me,” she said.
“I’m here.”
We continued. The final tenth seemed longer than the first mile. I watched her form. Heavy, but stable. Tired, but safe. Her watch vibrated. Six miles. Amy stopped running and moved into a walk. For three seconds, nothing happened. Then she checked the screen. A sound left her—not a laugh, not a cry, but both. She covered her mouth. I pretended to adjust my watch and gave her the lake instead of my attention. She deserved privacy.
After a moment, she said, “Dani.”
I turned. Her eyes were wet.
“I did it.”
“You did.”
“Six.”
“Six.”
