Yes, she had survived the fourteen-hour surgery, and that was a memory to celebrate.

Don’t you have work to do?

Yes, he did, and it would take his mind off things.

Andrew sat at the kitchen table with his laptop, filling out his sales reports, all the while keeping an eye on Kate. The sense of helplessness only fueled his stress. He decided a little day drinking was in order. It took the edge off and made dealing with the slew of insipid emails a tad easier. Every little thing was a crisis. These assholes don’t know what a real crisis is, he thought. He was on his fourth Lone Star when he realized it was dark out and the work day could officially be put to bed.

After he fed Buttons, the dog reluctantly taking a few bites before going back to his spot beside Kate, Andrew heated up leftover pasta and ate it over the sink.

He had energy – nervous energy – to burn. The thought of sitting and watching TV or reading a book seemed impossible. He needed to move, to sweat the alcohol from his system, to discharge the electric tension running through his body.

After writing a note and placing it on the coffee table, he changed into his sweats and headed out for a quick run.

The whole concept of running was ridiculous to him. Running in circles was what chickens did to kill time. He didn’t run to stay healthy. Yes, he needed to take care of himself so he could take care of Kate, but that wasn’t why he punished his legs, back, and lungs.

Before running, Andrew had denied to everyone, including himself, that he was stressed and overwhelmed with being a caregiver. Confessing his anxiety would be tantamount to admitting that he wasn’t fit to provide for Kate and nurse her back to health. Denial was a hell of a coping mechanism. He assumed if he didn’t speak or think his darkest thoughts, well, then they’d never be made real.

It came as no shock that that was not the way to go about things.

Andrew quietly closed the door and headed toward Locust Street. He wasn’t so much a jogger as he was a mad sprinter. His worn sneakers pounded the sidewalk slabs, while his heart rate accelerated.

You can’t outrun chemo, man.

Mr. Hanson waved at him from his car.

Oh yeah? Watch me.