Third Strike

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I was running when I saw my father kill himself. Not that he jumped off a tall building or stepped in front of a truck but—professionally, personally—what I watched him do was suicide.

Although I hadn’t been keeping a check of the distance, I reckoned I’d covered around eight miles at that point. Not fast, not slow. Just nicely settled into a rhythm where I could concentrate on working through the pain barrier. After six months’ slog, it didn’t seem to be getting any less solid, nor any further away. The doctors had told me I’d probably make a full recovery from the double-gunshot injury that had damn near been the end of me. They just hadn’t said when.

But just as I thought I might finally reach the finish this time before I hit that particular wall, I ran headlong into something else entirely.

As soon as I saw him, my stride faltered, all coordination leaving me. I stumbled and fell against the guardrail of the treadmill, rebounding heavily. The heart rate monitor pads came away from my chest and the alarm began to screech.

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