It’s freezing.
Sharp.
New England cold is a different species of weather.
But it cuts through the molten storm in my chest.
I start jogging.
At first it’s slow, mechanical, stiff.
Then my feet hit wet sand—thud, thud, thud—and something loosens.
The wind tears at my hair.
The cold burns my lungs.
My heart pounds like I’m trying to outrun every memory of the past forty-eight hours.
And then I start cursing.
Out loud.
“FUCK—”
Step.
“EVERYONE—”
Step.
“AT—”
Step.
“ROYAL—”
Step.
“OAKS!”
A gull screams back at me like it agrees.
Hot anger mixes with cold air until my blood feels electrified.
“I’m going back,” I say between breaths.
A promise.
A vow.
“I’m not running anymore.”
My pace picks up.
Sand sprays behind me.
A sharp ache burns up my legs but I don’t stop.
