“As you can see, the woman in question has actually given up running at this point, and is now on her hands and knees, crawling—well, I’ll say it—rather pathetically toward the finish line. This is presumably why Austinites on Twitter have dubbed her the Sad Crawler. In fact, #SadCrawler has just made its own record as the most-mentioned hashtag among Travis County Twitter users in the last year.
“Oh, here she comes now, around the bend. Let’s see if we can get a comment. Ma’am, CBS 12 here. Do you have something to say to the thousands of people watching you right now?”
“Arrgggghhhh,” I growled into the microphone, dragging my legs forward. They felt like tubs of liquid that had accidentally gotten attached to my body, and now I was responsible for lugging them around when I’d really rather leave them behind.
I managed to pull my head up, and there it was, like a gleaming mirage. The beautiful, beautiful finish line. It was nothing more than a white chalk line drawn across the street, but I felt in that moment like maybe I would kiss it, marry it,worshipit—start a cult devoted to The Great Finish Line in the Distance—if only I was allowed to reach it.
It could have been the dehydration talking. Or maybe the naive, simple girl who’d started this race hours ago—a girl I could barely remember, though Icouldrecall the way she’d snickered at the other runners at the starting line, those overserious fools with their nipple guards and ridiculous head-mounted hydration systems—maybe that girl had died. Obviously from flying too close to the sun, a tragic victim of hubris. And now I was stuck in purgatory, reduced to a simple collection of gelatinous muscles with one sentient thought:Finish.
The microphone, with its colorful CBS logo, shoved back in my face. Trisha Smith, wearing one hundred pounds of makeup—boy, would we be a contrast on-screen—frowned at me with theatrical concern. “Ma’am, could you tell us your name?”
“Stone-er,” I grunted, crawling forward, now as much to get away from her as to make it to the end. Unfortunately, she was more than able to keep up with my pace.
“Hmm. Let’s stick to Sad Crawler, then. What’s going through your head right now?”
“Must—finish—race.” Sweat poured down my face into my eyelashes, making it hard to see. I blinked and focused on moving my bright red hands forward, one in front of the other.
The lady would not give up. “What’s filling you with this unquenchable drive to finish? What is it that’s keeping you from quitting, even though it’s obvious to anyone watching that you’re far from a natural athlete, that maybe you haven’t stepped foot in a gym in years?”
“Two years,”I confessed into the mic, lurching forward.
“Do you hear that, Austin? Two whole years since this woman has exercised. Let that be a lesson to us all. What’s keeping you going?”
“Sarah—only—gets—money—if—I—finish,” I rasped, training my eyes on the beautiful white line, letting my vision tunnel. “Her—mom—died—and I—committed—thought—crimes—against—her.”
Trisha lunged away from me to address the camera directly. “The story of Sad Crawler takes a fascinating twist as the woman in question appears to confess to criminal acts. More details to come.”
Just a few more feet, just a few more feet, then all this could end. But suddenly, every muscle in my body stopped working. They simply gave up, waved the white flag.
I slumped to the street and laid my cheek against the asphalt. Mmm. That was nice. So much cooler than my skin. Comfortable, like a pillow, go figure. I closed my eyes. Maybe a short nap.
Noise swelled around me, and I cracked an eyelid. Behind Trisha and the line of other runners, all of them with their fancyI Made Itstickers pressed to their shirts, was a crowd of observers. Their eyes were glued to me, cheering. I’d forgotten about them in the agony of pushing my body forward; stopped seeing them when my vision narrowed, blocking everything else out. But there were many people now, and they were all shouting encouragements at me.
I opened both eyes.
“Stoner,” came a voice that was familiar and close. No. It couldn’t be. Now I was definitely hallucinating.
But I pushed myself up to my elbows, wobbling a little, just to make sure. And I was right. It was Ben. Standing on the side of the street next to a handsome, slightly younger doppelgänger I recognized as his brother, Will. They were both staring at me with the kind of concerned look you gave a kid who’d climbed to the top of the monkey bars and was threatening to jump off.
“What are you doing here?” I croaked.
“Are you kidding? We saw you on TV at the airport and rushed over.” Ben studied me. “Are you hurt? What’s happening?”
“I’m a doctor now, Lee,” Will said. “Or, well, I’m in med school. But I can help you if you need it.” He radiated so much Ben-like goodness I felt myself blinking back tears.
“You raised a good one,” I choked to Ben. Then I gulped a breath, pushing the air past my dry, sore throat. “And you were right. About the marathon. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.”
“Thehalf-marathon,” Will corrected. “It’s only thirteen miles. Most people can walk that in under five hours, so...”
“Do you want us to pick you up and carry you out?” Ben asked. “Just tell me, and we’ll do it.”
“Louie,” Trisha called to her cameraman, scampering to where Ben and Will stood. “Please tell me you’re getting the double love interests.”
A chant started from the crowd. I squinted. It sounded like they were saying—Yes, that was it.Fin-ish, fin-ish, fin-ish.I’d always loved chants. Their words stoked a fire in me.
I looked at Ben and remembered what I’d promised myself: I would never,evergive up. I would right my wrongs. I would trust myself to be what I needed.
I shook my head. “No. I’m going to do it. I’m going to finish.”
