Winnie was ambivalent about the walker. “Thank you,” she said dourly. “I know I need it. I hate the look of the bloody things, however.”

“But while you can walk, it’s important to keep walking. The wheelchair is a cop-out and we both know it. Fortunately, it’s too soon for that.”

“Not so much a cop-out as giving up,” Winnie said. “And by damn, I know there’s no going back but I’m not quitting yet.”

“Good for you!” she praised. “But for the first days especially, please let one of us know when you’re taking a stroll. It’s helpful, not foolproof.”

They practiced for a while and in no time at all Lin Su was begging Winnie to slow down, make every step a careful step.

Lin Su often heard Blake and Gretchen laughing if they were on the deck or the beach or even if the windows were open. She tried not to imagine what was happening at his house after the training was done. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop the images. She knew in her heart that Blake was with the woman of his choice, a woman he’d been coupled with for a long time. He had explained they’d worked together for five years.

Finally the day came that the house next door to Winnie fell silent and this was a great relief to Lin Su. Of course, Charlie still used Blake’s gym with Troy monitoring his progress and taking all his readings for his notebook, but they didn’t hang out over there. They went over for their hour. Troy took advantage and indulged some of his own workout while keeping an eye on Charlie.

Charlie was so proud of his progress. He was gaining momentum in no time. He was only into his third week and he was running. He wasn’t running too far but there had been no serious shortness of breath and not a hint of an asthma attack. He was going to try some training without the nebulizer when Blake got back from his race.

At the words back from his race Lin Su tried to forget the way he’d touched her, kissed her brow. They would have to start over. He was Charlie’s friend and supporter, her neighbor in a sense. Nothing more.

* * *

Once in Tahoe, Blake drove the event track. He insisted on doing this alone. There was one section of the run that was incredibly grueling with a steep climb of two thousand feet around a mountain curve. Then the next four miles were at over five thousand feet, a challenge for anyone who had not trained at that altitude. Then, even harder for some, a decline of three thousand feet. Down was hard.

Go to the track in the morning when you’re fresh and well rested, his mentor had suggested. Walk that part of the route at a slow and leisurely pace. Take it all in, inhale it deeply, listen to all sounds, remember how it felt when you were not depleted. Recall these details in the race and put your mind there. Be the trail.

There were a lot of triathletes out on the route, looking it over, some running or riding parts of it, some just examining it. Blake wondered how many were doing what he was doing—committing it to memory while there was no stress so he could recall and replicate the feelings. And float.

Blake was happy in Tahoe. He saw Gretchen every day but she had rented her own condo, one with space enough for some of the support crew and trainers, and she was busy with her own training. He wanted to be alone, to have no distractions.

She had proven to be a distraction. He was both surprised by this and unsurprised, if that was possible. She was the one who was not flexible about their relationship, yet now she was the one who wanted him back. She didn’t understand about “too late.” Before they made the drive in his SUV to Tahoe, she had begun testing him, wandering around his house in only a towel, a towel that slipped. Touching him in suggestive and affectionate ways. Making comments about what a good pair they were and how something seemed missing now.

But when it came to the training, to tweaking his program and nudging better times out of him, she was a master. He would hate to give her up. It would cost him but the price of keeping her could be higher.

He crouched on the trail he would run on Saturday. He picked up some loose dirt and gravel and let it drift in the breeze. By four Saturday morning Gretchen would have all the temperatures, wind velocity and approximate location of gusts around curves and passes. She would tell him where he’d get his next food and water and the support crew would be standing by to report endurance times and stats. He carried gel packs in his pockets, protein supplements he could use on the track; he shaved his legs.

Blake loved the marathon; it was his favorite part, even when he was tired. His legs were long, his stride wide and his pace even. Sometimes he thought of his childhood and sometimes he felt like Forrest Gump—someone who could run forever. Moving ahead, moving away from the pack, going forward, had always brought deep satisfaction. And during the race he exercised amazing control, not giving in to the urge to change his pace or up his speed—that took confidence. He trusted his rhythm, his heart rate and respirations; he believed his timing was close to perfect. He was rarely beat in the marathon; he knew what he was doing. Those runners who were desperate to make their mark and pass him dropped back before long because they didn’t trust their training, their pace. Maybe they didn’t know their best, most dependable speed.

This morning as he crouched along the trail and felt the breeze on his face, inhaled the scent of pine and sunshine, he wasn’t thinking of the race. He was thinking of Lin Su. He knew she had seen Gretchen’s saucy move. He knew Lin Su would take that in, weigh it and hold it silently in her head, judging it to mean that she meant nothing to him. She would decide his gentle touch and soft kiss was just a neighborly thing when it was more.

He looked at the sky above the pines. He couldn’t think about that now. Now he had to think about this trail, this breeze, this scent. He would be in a pack of a dozen at this point in the race and he wouldn’t be ahead. He filled his lungs with oxygen; last year this race had been canceled because of smoke in the air. This year the air was clean. He would be ahead after the ascent of two thousand feet, and he would be barely ahead. The descent, if he could hold his heart rate and pace, that was his chance to get ahead if he didn’t screw it up by going too hard or fast. Going down was not easy; it was a trick. Those runners who took advantage of the plunge down and went with it, they got breathing too fast and their respirations huffed and they wore themselves out. You can coast on wheels, not legs.

He’d done this a hundred times. He’d run this race five times; it was a good race. The purse was small but the sponsors were all here. Unless there was a dark horse, he might actually win it.