“He’ll have a heart attack, running around after all that food,” Myra said.

“I don’t think so,” Doctor Bob said. “He’s prepping for the big race tomorrow.”

“If he tries anything more than just jogging in that 12K, he will have a heart attack,” Myra said, watching Scott chase down one of her laughing grandchildren. “I swan, men in middle age lose all their sense.”

Scott went home tired and happy and looking forward to the Turkey Trot the next day. Before bed, he got on the scale and observed without much surprise that he was down to 141. He wasn’t losing two pounds a day yet, not quite, but that would come. He turned on his computer and slid Zero Day back to March 15th. He was afraid—it would have been foolish not to be—but he was also curious. And something else. Happy? Was that it? Yes. Probably crazy, but definitely yes. Certainly he felt singled out somehow. Doctor Bob might think that was crazy, but Scott thought it was sane. Why feel bad about what you couldn’t change? Why not embrace it?

*

There had been a cold snap in the middle of November, one hard enough to frost the fields and lawns, but the Friday after Thanksgiving dawned overcast and warm for the season. Charlie Lopresti on channel 13 was forecasting rain for later, perhaps heavy, but it hadn’t put a dent in Castle Rock’s big day, either among the spectators or the contestants.

Scott put on his old running shorts and walked up to the Rec building at quarter of eight, over an hour before the Trot was scheduled to commence, and there was already a huge crowd there, most of them wearing zip-up hoodies (which would be discarded at various points along the route as bodies warmed). The majority were waiting to check in on the left, where signs read OUT OF TOWN RUNNERS. On the right, where the sign read CASTLE ROCK RESIDENTS, there was a short single file. Scott pulled the backing from his number and pasted it on his tee-shirt, above the bulge of his bogus belly. Nearby, the high school band was tuning up.

Patsy Denton, of Patsy’s Diner, checked him in and directed him toward the far side of the building, where View Drive started and the race would begin.

“Being local, you could cheat up to the front,” Patsy said, “but it’s generally considered bad form. You should find the other three hundreds, and stick with them.” She eyed his midsection. “Besides, you’ll be runnin at the back with the kiddies soon enough.”

“Ouch,” Scott said.

She smiled. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it? All those bacon-burgers and cheese omelets have a way of comin back to haunt a fella. Bear it in mind if you start to feel your chest tightenin up.”

As Scott walked over to join the growing crowd of the locals who had checked in early, he studied the little map. The course was a rough loop. Down View Drive to Route 117 was the first three kilometers. The Bowie Stream covered bridge was the halfway point. Then along Route 119, which became Bannerman Road once it crossed the municipal town line. The tenth kilometer included Hunter’s Hill, sometimes known as Runners’ Heartbreak. It was so steep the kids often went tobogganing there on snow-days, picking up fearsome speed but kept safe by the plowed banks. The last two kilometers were along Castle Rock’s Main Street, which would be lined with cheering spectators, not to mention camera crews from all three of the Portland TV stations.

Everyone was milling in groups, talking and laughing, drinking hot coffee or cocoa. Everyone, that was, except for Deirdre McComb, looking impossibly tall and beautiful in her blue shorts and a pair of snow-white Adidas sneaks. She had placed her number—19—off-center, high on the left side of her bright red tee-shirt, in order to leave most of the shirt’s front visible. On it was an empanada and HOLY FRIJOLE 142 MAIN STREET.

Advertising the restaurant made sense . . . but only if she thought it would do any good. Scott had an idea she might be beyond that now. Surely she knew that “her” posters had been replaced by less controversial ones; unlike the fellow who would be running with his guide dog (Scott saw him near the starting line, giving an interview), she wasn’t blind. That she hadn’t just said fuck it and dropped out didn’t surprise him; he had a pretty good idea of why she was hanging in there. She wanted to stick it to them.

Of course she does, he thought. She wants to beat them all—the men, the women, the kids, and the blind man with his German shepherd. She wants the whole town to watch a lesbean, and a married lesbean at that, throw the switch on their Christmas tree.

He thought she knew the restaurant was toast, and maybe she was glad, maybe she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of the Rock, but yes, she wanted to stick it to them before she and her wife went, and leave them with that memory. She wouldn’t even have to make a speech, just smile that superior smile. The one that said in your eye, you provincial, self-righteous assholes. Good discussion.

She was limbering up, first lifting one leg behind her and holding it by the ankle, then the other. Scott stopped at the refreshment table (FREE TO RACERS, ONE TO A CUSTOMER) and got two coffees, paying a buck for the extra one. Then he walked over to Deirdre McComb. He had no designs on her, nor romantic inclinations of any kind, but he was a man, and could not help admiring her figure as she stretched and turned, all the time looking raptly up at the sky, where there was nothing to be seen but slate gray clouds.

Centering herself, he thought. Getting ready. Maybe not for her last race, but maybe for the last one that really means something to her.