She looked at him, water running down her face like tears.

“What happened? My God, you put your arm around me and it was like I weighed nothing!”

Scott thought of the coins he had put in the pockets of his parka on the day he’d first gone to see Doctor Bob. He thought about standing on his bathroom scale while holding a pair of twenty-pound hand-weights.

“You did,” he said.

“DeeDee! DeeDee!”

It was Missy, running toward them. She held out her arms. Deirdre splashed to her feet and embraced her wife. They staggered and almost went down. Scott put his arms out to catch them, but didn’t actually touch them. Lightning flashed.

Then the crowd found them, and they were surrounded by the people of Castle Rock, applauding in the rain.

CHAPTER 5

After the Race

That evening Scott was lying in a tub filled with water as hot as he could stand it, trying to soothe the ache out of his muscles. When his phone began to ring, he fumbled for it under the clean clothes folded on the chair by the tub. I’m tied to this damn thing, he thought.

“Hello?”

“Deirdre McComb, Mr. Carey. What night shall I set aside for our dinner? Next Monday would be good, because the restaurant is closed on Mondays.”

Scott smiled. “I think you misunderstood the wager, Ms. McComb. You won, and your dogs now have free rein on my lawn, in perpetuity.”

“We both know that isn’t exactly true,” she said. “In fact, you threw the race.”

“You deserved to win.”

She laughed. It was the first one he’d heard from her, and it was charming. “My high school running coach would tear his hair out if he heard such a sentiment. He used to say what you deserve has nothing to do with where you finish. I will take the win, however, if you invite us to dinner.”

“Then I’ll brush up on my vegetarian cooking. Next Monday works for me, but only if you bring your wife. Sevenish, say?”

“That’s fine, and she wouldn’t miss it. Also . . .” She hesitated. “I want to apologize for what I said. I know you didn’t cheat.”

“No apology necessary,” Scott said, and he meant it. Because, in a way he had cheated, involuntary as it might have been.

“If not for that, I need to apologize for how I’ve treated you. I could plead extenuating circumstances, but Missy tells me there are none, and she might be right about that. I have certain . . . attitudes . . . and changing them hasn’t been easy.”

He couldn’t think of what to say to that, so he changed the subject. “Are either of you gluten-free? Lactose-intolerant? Let me know, so I don’t make something you or Missy—Ms. Donaldson—can’t eat.”

She laughed again. “We don’t eat meat or fish, and that’s it. Everything else is on the table.”

“Even eggs?”

“Even eggs, Mr. Carey.”

“Scott. Call me Scott.”

“I will. And I’m Deirdre. Or DeeDee, to avoid confusion with Dee the dog.” She hesitated. “When we come to dinner, can you explain what happened when you pulled me up? I’ve had strange sensations while I’m running, strange perceptions, every runner will tell you the same—”

“I had a few myself,” Scott said. “From Hunter’s Hill on, things got very . . . weird.”

“But I’ve never felt anything like that. For a few seconds it was like I was on the space station, or something.”

“Yes, I can explain. But I’d like to invite my friend Dr. Ellis, who already knows. And his wife, if she’s available.” If she’ll come, was what Scott didn’t want to say.

“Fine. Until Monday, then. Oh, and be sure to look at the Press-Herald. The story won’t be in the newspaper until tomorrow, of course, but it’s online now.”

Sure it is, Scott thought. In the twenty-first century, print newspapers are also buggy-whip factories.

“I’ll do that.”

“Did you think it was lightning? There at the end?”

“Yes,” Scott said. What else would it have been? Lightning went with thunder like peanut butter went with jelly.

“So did I,” DeeDee McComb said.

*

He dressed and fired up his computer. The story was on the Press-Herald?’s homepage, and he was sure it would be on the front page of Saturday’s paper, maybe above the fold, barring any new world crisis. The headline read: LOCAL RESTAURANT OWNER WINS CASTLE ROCK TURKEY TROT. According to the paper, it was the first time a town resident had won the race since 1989. There were only two photographs in the online edition, but Scott guessed there would be more in Saturday’s print version. It hadn’t been lightning at the end; it had been the newspaper photographer, and he’d gotten class-A pix despite the rain.

The first one showed Deirdre and Scott together, with the Tin Bridge stoplight a smeary red in the background, which meant she must have fallen not even seventy yards from the finish. He had his arm around her waist. Hair that had come loose from her ponytail was plastered to her cheeks. She was looking up at him with exhausted wonder. He was looking down at her . . . and smiling.

SHE GOT BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM A FRIEND, the caption read, and below that: Fellow Castle Rocker Scott Carey helps Deirdre Mc?Comb to her feet after she took a spill on the wet road just short of the finish line.