Showering under the garden hose in my client’s backyard, I scrubbed the popcorn ceiling off my legs.

Normally I don’t work Sundays, but they were out of town and knowing the unavoidable war zone I’d be creating, I seized the chance to work without scrutiny. So, after my morning run of 15 miles, I covered the floor in plastic, doused the enamel ceiling with the Round-up sprayer, and scraped it into submission.

Now late for a girlfriend’s birthday, I dried off with paper towels, changed into clothes found on the floor of my truck, and dashed to the restaurant.

Pulling up as they were already leaving, they screeched, and skipping back to the patio, we were twelve again.

Celeste, her marathon pr (personal record) of 3:06, is red-headed, beanpole skinny and sassy. Alana, a gorgeous dark brunette, is the mother of our group, warding off crisis’ brought on by hormones or love gone wrong.

Onion rings and salads ordered, we talked about racing, life and lack of dating. Celeste was injured and trying to keep her from running was like keeping my 16-year-old home on a Friday night.

We were just about to leave when my phone rang.

Noah.

Straining to hear amidst his sobs, I plugged my other ear with my finger, closing my eyes, I could barely make out the words.

“I think I need to go back to rehab” he said. “I’ll call you back, I have to go.”

Click.

A ghost, my entire existence gone, I hear my friend’s words, but they pass right through me. Wanting only his voice, I die to my life.