It wasn’t easy to make her way through the fynbos. With no clear path, Clare had to zig-zag her way around the plants, trying to avoid catching her injured leg on any of the bushes. The short distance to the path took almost an hour to cover. She tried to reassure herself with the knowledge that, now upright, she’d almost certainly see Faye or whoever else might walk along the path and be able to call out to them. Even so, she was relieved to arrive at the path where walking would be easier.

With the edge of the forest less than a hundred metres in the other direction, Clare felt a tug of regret she wouldn’t hike there on this trip. She briefly imagined hobbling to the trees and lying in the undergrowth. Navigating the veld had exhausted her. A nap would be pleasant. But she had to get back to the cabin. She needed help and shelter.

The path, with its sandy surface and silver puddles, lay ahead. It was hard to imagine that, just hours ago, she had walked so freely upon it after running up the hill. Clare felt cold at the thought of not being able to run. How long would it be before she recovered? How would she manage without it? There was only one person who would understand how difficult it would be for her not to run. Mark.

“It’s weird how I find the thought of going for a run terrible,” said Mark, when she met him in their usual spot under the sprawling wild fig tree near her res. “If it wasn’t that I knew you’d be mad with me if I didn’t pitch, I’m not sure I’d have the willpower to do it.”

“Really?” she said, as they took off. “After all this time, you’re telling me you don’t actually like running? Why do you—”

“No, no. You misunderstand me. I like running and I love having run. That feeling of having done it is incredible, afterwards. But I hate the thought of having to run before I get here.”

“So, don’t think about it; just do it.”

“How do you not think about it?”

“You’re asking me?” said Clare. They laughed and ran on.

Mark was the only person Clare joked with about her condition. She had met him in a lecture early in second year when he sat next to her and, dropping his books with a thud, said, “Ah, the thin girl who runs a lot.”

She looked at him, trying to gauge his intentions. He smiled, pale blue eyes twinkling, “I don’t mean anything by that. I have sisters who I miss teasing when I’m away. I’m Mark.”

When the lesson was over, he followed her out of the room. “Can I come running with you sometime?” he asked.

“Um . . . why?”