The Running Dream

miles, I tell myself. Only four to go. One plus one plus one plus one.

It feels a little fuzzy in my head. Like I’ve got the wrong number of ones. Like I’m so fatigued that I can’t even count to four.

One plus one plus one plus one.

And somewhere in my fuzzy mind I make a connection—that’s how everything is done.

One by one by one by one.

That’s how I got through losing a leg.

Minute by minute by minute by minute.

Hour by hour by hour by hour.

Day by day by day by day.

That’s how anybody makes it through anything.

way down the ramp, Gavin whispers, “Can you really understand her? I could only catch a little of what she said.”

I nod. “It was hard at first, but now I’m pretty good at it. It’s like a dialect—it takes some getting used to, but you eventually figure it out.”

…” I follow his gaze to the wheelchair. “Hard to explain.”

He doesn’t press. “Okay … well, you want some company? I could run with you.”

“Uh … actually, I was getting ready to turn around. I usually do a loop, but I’m not going to make five miles pushing this thing. I’m already wiped out.”

“So I’ll run back with you.”

I turn the wheelchair around. “Don’t feel like you have to watch over the crazy girl pushing a load of potting soil. I’ll be fine.”

And then, out of the blue, he asks, “Do I bug you, or what?”

My head snaps to face him. “What are you talking about?”

“You always seem like you’re trying to get away from me.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. I’ll think that we’re having a good time and then you’ll practically ditch me.”

“Wow. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then what?”

I want to let go.

I want to stop.

But I press on.

Just to the next intersection.

Just to the moving van.

Just to the top of the rise.

little farther, I tell myself. Then you can turn around.

I coax myself forward with milestones:

Just to the end of the block.

Just to the stop sign.

Just to the next bend.

I start to see that the Internet is the way she travels; the way she socializes; the way she feels like part of things.

It’s the place where people see her, not her condition.

Gavin I can’t seem to figure out.

“She did it! She did it!” I squeal. And I find myself jumping and hugging—just like I would with anyone else on the team.

Only this isn’t just anyone.

This is Gavin Vance.

And it’s my first physical contact with him of any kind. I’ve never even accidentally bumped or brushed or touched him before.

And now I’m hugging him?

“Sorry!” I say, pulling away. Then I try to cover up my embarrassment with words. “It’s just … you have no idea how hard the eight hundred is. There’s no way you could get me to run that race

Hey!” he says. “I heard the good news!”

I look down, because holding his gaze is just … unnerving. “Nice little snowball you got rolling.” I glance up.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, if it wasn’t a worthy story, they wouldn’t be here.”

MY LIFE IS OVER.
Behind the morphine dreams is the nightmare of reality.
A reality I can’t face.
I cry myself back to sleep, wishing, pleading, praying that I’ll wake up from this, but the same nightmare always awaits me.