Outside in the cold, cars whoosh past me. I play this game with my feet where I try to step only on the white line technically made for bicycles. (I force my place in the world when I have to.)

Running didn’t always feel this good. Actually, for most of my life, running was truly terrible. I just didn’t get it. Like, no, I do not want to play tag with you, random elementary school friend. We will run if a bear starts chasing us, but do you see any bears? Me either. Also, I have short legs and small lungs, which is not a medically sound description of my respiratory system, but I don’t know how else to explain why it’s so goddamn hard to breathe when I’m power walking to make the bus on time.

Once Gene and I started running together, I was out of that anger management class so fast they doubted I was ever there at all. I ran and I ran and that’s how I realized you don’t have to be anatomically gifted to move fast. All you have to do is want to get out of someplace bad enough that you don’t care about the sweating or the panting or the ferocious cramping of your shins, ribs, and thighs. All you care about is what you need, and what you need is out.

When I get back home, it’s dark in the house. I don’t want to have to talk to my parents, so I tiptoe toward the stairs in my socks damp with toe sweat. When I reach for the railing, my hand touches something warm and soft, with fingers.…

“What the—” I jump back, heart pounding as I scramble for the light switch.

“Sorry, sweetie,” my dad says from the foot of the stairs. He’s gripping the railing with his right hand and the doorway to the dining room with the other. His nose is nearly touching the wall, and I feel claustrophobic looking at him.

“Are you okay, Dad?” I ask. I don’t want to crowd him more. “What are you doing out here so late?”

“I was just trying to get up the stairs,” he says, rocking back and forth a bit, but he’s still wedged in the corner, trapped by the railing of the stairs and the doorway to the kitchen, and something we can’t see too.

“But how did you get here without your chair?”

“I don’t need that thing.”

I gulp. I never know what to do in situations like these, and they’re happening more and more. If Mom were here, she’d do the right thing because everything she does is right. Everything I do is wrong, which is why it’s better if I don’t do anything. “Dad, how did you get out here?” I repeat, then loudly, “Hey, Mom?”

“Shh, I don’t want to bother your mom. If I could just… Cham, here, grab hold of my arm. I’m exhausted.” He moves his hand down the railing, and it shakes so much it rattles the wood.