He leaned against the doorframe and said, “At six a.m. I assume that means good morning.”
She took the water anyway.
They started in Central Park because Elena said real air helped more than a treadmill when people were afraid of their own bodies. The park at dawn in April was damp and silvered. Joggers moved through the paths like shadows. Dogs strained happily at leashes. The city at that hour had not yet hardened into noise. Maya wore old black leggings and a sweatshirt she had slept in once by accident and never stopped wearing because it smelled like safety. Taylor wore a dark track jacket over a plain T-shirt and looked annoyingly competent at everything, including carrying two coffees and pretending not to notice when she had to stop after twelve minutes.
“I can’t,” she said the first day, bent slightly, hands on hips, breath uneven.
