Three miles into the race, as beautiful vistas of the Great Smoky Mountains come into view, a man in front of me trips. “Pothole!” somebody yells, and I hop over it just in time. Other runners grab the man who tripped and help him to the side of the course. My heart doesn’t stop pounding hard for a few minutes. What if I had fallen in the hole two weeks before the full marathon? What if I’d twisted my knee? An icy chill rushes through me.

I love the bluegrass bands stationed along the course. We cross over creeks and the Watauga River, passing factories, barns, and cornfields. A pastry chef gives out cookies when we run past her restaurant on Main Street and the three of us have never been so excited to see dessert. The sun soars higher and higher in the sky as the race goes on, but I never feel truly tired. I only have to stop to use the bathroom once. All my training pays off.

I cross the finish line in 2:35 and do a silly pose for the automatic camera taking pictures of runners. Andrew high-fives Liza and me, and she and I hug. We scream “wooo!” together and bounce around like kids at recess, proud we finished. Compared to the twenty-two mile run we did two weeks ago, this race was a cinch.

It was a rest day.

A race volunteer hangs a medal around my neck and another drapes a crinkly silver cape around my shoulders. It looks like aluminum foil but feels soft and keeps me warm. My heart starts to slow down as I weave through the crowd to find what I need most: a snack.

Andrew, Liza, and I grab bananas off a table, then head to the tree where Matt’s large blue flag hangs from a branch. It lets our team know where to meet.

I walk up to Bridget. “Hey, have you seen Jeremiah? Or Matt?”

Her eyes are bloodshot. “They went to Vanderbilt hospital.”

“What?” I drop my banana on the ground. “Why?”

“Jeremiah got hurt during the race. He fell off a bridge—”

I don’t even stop to hear the rest. I grab my bag from the storage truck, pull out my car keys, and sprint to the parking lot.

•••

This race was supposed to be safe! How could he fall off a bridge? Was it the long stretch over the Watauga River at mile eight? Did the medics rescue him and take him by ambulance before I even reached that part of the race? I didn’t hear any sirens or see any police cars blazing by.

A memory flashes in my mind. Sirens blaring during a thunderstorm. The moment, an hour later, when Mr. Crocker knocked on my front door to tell me he was gone.

I drive to Nashville as fast as I can, speeding through yellow lights, barely stopping at stop signs.

I never got a chance to tell Kyle good-bye. That I loved him.

On his way home from my place our last night, after we made up and got back together, there was a torrential downpour. He saw a car veer off the road into a ditch, and when he rushed out of his car to help the elderly man who’d crashed, another car slipped off the road and hit my boyfriend. During his eulogy, his brother Connor said Kyle died just the way he would’ve wanted to: helping somebody.

•••

On the last night, Kyle and I stood in the doorway of my trailer.

Nick sat a few feet away watching the World Series on TV. The noisy game and noisy rain made it hard to hear what my boyfriend was saying.

“I’ll pick you up for school,” he said, kissing me for what must’ve been the hundredth time that night. I would never get tired of his kisses. His chocolate brown eyes were happy when he said he’d buy me a chai latte before he picked me up in the morning.

“How can you leave during the middle of the game?” Nick asked.

“No more baseball for me this year. I can’t believe we lost to Philly in the playoffs again,” Kyle replied.

“And you call yourself a baseball fan.”

I knew it wasn’t about the baseball at all. My brother liked having another guy around the house and it thrilled him I was getting back together with my boyfriend after a month apart.

“Maybe you should wait for the rain to clear out,” I said when the rain started pelting the roof. “Call your parents and tell them you’re staying here until the storm is over.”

He kissed me. “I’ll be fine.”

I handed him a newspaper to cover his head and he dashed into the night. He honked, and I waved from the porch, not caring that I was getting all wet.

“Bye, Annie!” he yelled out the window.

I smiled, filled with hope. We were back together. Everything was going to be just fine.

•••

At the hospital, I park in an area that clearly says “no parking” but I don’t care if I get towed. I jet into the emergency room. The front desk lady tells me he’s in room five. Before she can even ask if I’m friend or family, I sprint down the hallway, my sneakers squeaking on the hospital floor. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.