I have found that if people think of you as a runner, they are less likely to worry about you being skinny. After all, you need food to run, right? How can you exercise without fuel? It’s true, but there is a fine line between how much you want and how much you need. I know how it feels to always keep myself a little hungry because it hurts less than being full. I know the acute sensitivity of my body when it is denied of food; how the light seems brighter, how hollow I feel. I have had years of practice. The first time I returned from treatment, when I discovered track and field I felt like I had found my religion. These were my people. I couldn’t believe I was allowed among them.

I bounce off the forefoot, leaning into the stride. A ship might be the most boring place in the world to run. Around and around and around I go. Only my watch can tell the difference between one lap and the next. After a while even I lose count. By the time I started running, in high school, Dad had moved an hour away. He’d remarried, he’d even had another kid, but he still came to all my races. He’d played on the varsity football team at school; sport was something he knew how to talk about. Numbers, winners, losers, times. He was so thrilled when I went to the state championships. When I broke the girls’ record at my high school for the mile. He made me a spreadsheet so I could keep track of my goals. Mom let it be his thing. She must have seen how much I needed his approval. I slow for a corner then pick up the pace on the straight and nearly run smack into another person. I dodge out of the way, gasping out a ‘sorry’, grasping the rail to keep from slipping.

‘Hey,’ he says, ‘watch where you’re going.’

‘Sorry,’ I say again, still catching my breath.

‘Okay. No problem. You alright?’

‘Yeah.’ I look away to keep from staring. He might be the only person my age on board the ship, besides the waiters and rec staff. He’s tall and has on the most ridiculously short running shorts; I can practically see his hip in the high slit. I wonder if he’s Australian. I look out over the railing and try to push my smile down.

‘You’re up here a lot, running, aren’t you?’ he says.

I nod, glancing at him, and see he’s squinting, rain clinging to his blond eyelashes. The accent is slightly off-kilter. Canadian?

I haven’t noticed him before, but he must be up here a lot too.

‘What’s your distance?’ he asks.

‘Mostly halves, ten k’s, five k’s. What about you?’

‘Marathons.’

Typical man. They always have to go for the toughest-sounding thing.