London’s dense, urban streets are a grey blur all around me, moving too fast for my attention to capture.
Don’t let me down, 768. Your life depends on it.
The rumble of Hyland’s SUV following me while I run has long since been drowned out by the haunting voices. Flashes of those agony-filled days after my injury when all I could do was hope to die.
The severe head injury didn’t kill me. No matter how hard I wished it would. Weeks turned to months, and gradually, my strength returned. The wounds healed. And the terrifying lasting effects set in.
My skull pounds harder as the distance I can push my struggling body to cover becomes my sole focus. I wokeup groggy and disorientated, but rather than wallowing, I’m determined to outrun my symptoms.
After surviving another gruelling four miles, Tom’s apartment building comes into view. I’m drenched in sweat, limbs shaking hard and head buzzing with exhaustion. But at least the voices have stopped.
At the sight of Warner sitting on the wide steps outside the building, a stack of folded cardboard boxes at his feet, I pull up short of collapsing in a lifeless heap.
“Woah. Easy, Em.”
Wavering on my feet, I scrunch my eyes shut to battle a wave of lightheadedness. “I’m… okay.”
“What the hell are you doing to yourself?”
“Keeping b-busy.”
Peeling my watering eyes open, the world is still blurry, but a little less so. Warner squints in the afternoon sun, shielding his eyes as he studies me.
It takes a few minutes of panting for me to catch my short breath. He patiently waits for me to cool down, appearing ready to intervene and catch me if my legs decide to give out.
“Okay,” I concede. “I’m good.”
“You look sweaty.” He laughs lightly.
Bracing my hands on my knees, I blink through my still-hazy vision. “Shut. Up.”
“I’ve been sitting here for half an hour. You’ve never run for that long before.”
“How would you know?”
Warner looks down at his black sports watch. “It’s my job to know things. Especially about our clients.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Maybe. What’s up with the marathon running?”
“Needed to work through some stuff.”
“You’re going to have to open up and deal with some of that stuff eventually.” He pins me with a stern gaze. “Sitting down for our interviews doesn’t count as healthy processing.”
“Thanks for the advice.” Ignoring my headache, I roll my eyes. “Why didn’t you wait inside?”
“Your brother called me a dickhead and slammed the door in my face. I figured waiting outside was safer.”
“Your best friend,” I correct in a saccharine voice.
“Yeah, yeah.” He stiffly rises to his feet. “He’s accused me of endorsing your, and I quote, childish and self-destructive bullshit.”
“Ah. That line. He tried it on me too.”
At the sound of Hyland slamming his car door shut, I awkwardly straighten. A stitch is gnawing a hole in my midsection. It’s taking all my willpower not to collapse on the steps now fatigue is setting in.
“That was a particularly gruelling form of self-torture,” Hyland rasps as he approaches us. “Seventeen miles, red.”
