I reach the one-mile mark and pull my ponytail tighter. I don’t deliberate in the operating room, even in the hairiest of situations. There’s a fine line between being cautious and being hesitant. Caution means I’ve done my homework but hesitation means I haven’t.

Adam’s cousin issued a late invitation to her wedding, which is just a couple of weeks from now. It is the week I’ve planned to spend at a lake house, surrounded by trees stripped of leaves and catching the magic of moonlight on water. Adam thinks we should reschedule and join the family in celebrating at a restaurant in Connecticut.

I don’t know how to tell him that I’ve had an uneasiness lately, something I haven’t felt in a while. It makes me seek out quiet spaces and comforting rhythms until this wave passes.

I run my second, third, and fourth miles as dusk gives way to night. Headlights cut through the ring of trees that surround the path, casting eerie shadows on the ground. But I run at night because that’s when it becomes impossible to tell if the salt on my face is from tears or sweat. Because that’s when I confirm that I am no longer cowed by what might be lurking in the bushes. I don’t look over my shoulder. I just run faster, harder.

Eager to prove myself to the dark.

Chapter 34

The team is turning over the room for the next patient so I pour myself a cup of coffee in the empty physician lounge where, for once, the television is not set to a twenty-four-hour news channel.

How do you do it? the talk show host asks her guest, a rock singer I’ve never heard of who suffered horrific physical abuse at the hands of his father growing up. His father took great care to strike only the parts of his body that would be covered by clothes. Even after his father died, he kept the years of abuse a secret.

I fall into an office chair and whirl myself to face the television.

After surviving something so ugly, how do you manage to wake up every day and create music? How do you step on a stage?

He bows his head.

I just keep all that in a box, I suppose. Don’t let it get in the way of more important stuff.

I give my coffee a stir. Clumps of creamer refuse to dissolve.

Some of your fans might be survivors as well. Some might be wondering how you cope with the trauma.

He talks about the nonprofit he has started to foster healing through art programs. Not everyone can do that, of course. Some people can barely open a bottle of Klonopin.

Do you get nightmares or flashbacks? the host asks, and the musician draws a long sip of water from his glass.