The Last Mile

The neon sign of the vitamin store flickered as Sarah pressed her forehead against the window, watching her own breath fog the glass. At 2 AM, the city belonged to insomniacs and those running from something.

"You're out again," the night clerk said, not looking up from his magazine. "Same as usual?"

She nodded, sliding the crumpled ten-dollar bill across the counter. The bottle of D-3 clinked as she dropped it into her pocket alongside her phone. Twelve missed calls from Julie.

Running had started as a New Year's resolution three years ago—something to fill the hours after Mark left. Now it was the only thing that quieted the noise in her head. The rhythmic slap of her soles against pavement, the cold air burning her lungs, the way the world blurred into streaks of streetlight and shadow.

She checked her phone again. Julie's last message: "They're saying weeks now. Can you come?"

Sarah's fingers trembled as she typed and deleted three responses. She'd been Julie's maid of honor, her person through bad dates and career changes and that dark winter after Julie's mom died. That's what friends did—they showed up.

But the last time she'd visited the hospital, the smell of antiseptic and death had sent her sprinting to the parking lot, gasping for air. She'd never gone back.

The vitamin bottle felt heavy in her pocket. She'd started taking them after Julie's diagnosis, as if swallowing enough supplements could somehow immunize her against the same fate. As if health were something you could purchase in bottles.

"Sarah?" The night clerk was actually looking at her now. "You okay?"

She met his eyes and realized she was crying. "No. But I will be."

She turned toward the hospital, her running shoes quiet on the sidewalk. Some miles you had to walk. Some things you couldn't run from, no matter how fast you went.

The phone buzzed again. This time, she answered.