Michael, my stepdad, tracked me down not long after Hyde slumped away into the crowd.

“Way to go!” Michael said, clapping me on the back. “Did you make it?”

“16:33,” I said, trying to look like it didn’t bother me.

“Your chip time might be different though, right?” Michael asked. I appreciated him taking the time to learn my sport, but right now it felt like rubbing salt into the wound.

“Maybe, but probably not. I was right on the starting line when the race started.”

“You might be close enough,” Michael said.

Carl Hyde was right at my heels. Probably trying to figure out a way to kick them out from under me. I shook out my clenched hands. I wasn’t thinking about Hyde. Nope. I had to stay focused on my race. 16:30 was my goal.

I dashed around number 316, my feet flying beneath me. Sweat stung my eyes as I swiped at my brow.

Hundreds of runners had funneled through the starting line at a city park ten minutes ago, but the pack had thinned out. Now it was just me and a few others trotting through the suburban neighborhoods of Eugene, Oregon.