I get what Matt said about wanting to run fast. The adrenaline, the cheers, the laughter—all of it makes me want to blast off. Then purple powder splatters us, topping the yellow.

“You look like Bart Simpson and Barney’s love child,” I say.

“That’s just wrong, Winters. Wrong.”

By the end of the race, we’ve gone from looking like Skittles to just plain dirty. The colors mixed together, creating a look I’d call Blue Sewage. I hold my hands above my head as we cross the finish line, where a final dusting of powder paints me orange. A year ago, I couldn’t run half a mile. And I just finished my first 5K. I laugh, grinning up at the sun.

“Annie.”

“Yeah, Jere?”

He lifts my braid up. “Your hair is green.”

I grab his T-shirt in my hand and pull him closer. “You drive me insane.”

He gives me a bear hug, and for the first time in a long time, I’m content, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

TODAY’S DISTANCE: 14 MILES

Two Months until the Country Music Marathon

“Let’s walk it off. C’mon.”

Matt has a hand on my elbow. I feel queasy. Need to throw up. Need to throw up now. I vomit into bushes beside the trail. My vision goes hazy through my tear-filled eyes and acid burns my throat. Halfway through today’s run, I had the worst bathroom experience of my life and I feel like I could have another any minute. How embarrassing.

“Drink this,” Matt says gently, and I take the paper cup from his hand and sip. Lemon. Mmm. He gives me a towel to wipe my mouth.

“Hard,” I say between sips. “The run was hard.”

He squeezes my shoulders and smiles. “You did great. Just think, you can do fourteen miles. You’re over halfway there.”

“But what if, on the day of the marathon, my stomach gets screwed up to the point I can’t finish?” I stopped three times today to use the bathroom. I couldn’t keep up with Liza. It sucks running so far alone. And damn does it suck using porta-potties!

“I’ve never had a client with such a sensitive stomach,” Matt says, scratching the back of his head. “And you’ve been taking Pepto?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you should start eating white pizza, you know, without the sauce.”

“That’s sacrilege,” I reply, making him laugh.

I finish my Gatorade, then Matt helps me stretch out my legs. He takes my ankle in his hands, pulling my leg toward his chest.

“Oww!” I say.

He lets go immediately. “Where does it hurt?”

“Left knee and thigh.”

“The knee’s a little swollen. How long’s it been hurting?”

“It bothered me when I was biking the other night. But today…a few miles?”

“Did you walk on it or keep running?”

“Kept running.” I understand now why Jeremiah wants to push through the pain. I can’t imagine giving up now, not after all this training.

“Next time it hurts, stop and walk for a couple minutes, okay?” Matt helps me bend it back and forth. “Bridget, fetch me an ice pack, please.”

While she’s doing that, he lugs two big binders out of his truck, flipping through both of them. He pulls out the waiver form I signed when I joined his team. I feel a sudden rush of fear that maybe he’ll tell me this is it. That I need to stop running. That he doesn’t want to lose his 100 percent race-day success rate. That I won’t get to run the marathon in honor of Kyle. But then I get a hold of myself. He’s just looking at my insurance information, for God’s sake.

The other binder reminds me of my brother’s baseball card collection, but it’s filled with business cards instead of Topps.

Matt whips one out. “I’ll call this orthopedist today and try to get you an appointment. He might be able to see you first thing Monday if I call in a favor.”

“Do you think it’s that serious?” I ask quietly.

“I don’t know. But we’re not messing around with it. You’ve worked too hard to have something eff it up now.”

My hand shakes as I take the card from him. “Will the visit cost money?”

“This guy takes your insurance. I can come with you if you want me to. We’ll make sure we adjust your training correctly if we need to.”

“That’d be good, thanks.”

Matt won’t let me leave until my leg is good and iced, so I’m still here when Jeremiah finishes his twenty-four mile run in which he paced two men. Of course he freaks out when he sees my leg propped up.