They were going to get across that finish line on time. Angela wasn’t taking no for an answer.
She repositioned Eva’s arm across her shoulders, supporting her weight. Eva hopped on her left foot, a renewed sense of vigor and determination infused in her. Over the last two miles, Marc had carried her on his back and Angela lugged her own pack plus Eva’s—an awkward feat, to say the least.
Marc would have continued carrying her except his back had started to hurt. Unfortunately, they only had twenty minutes left until their time would run out for the day.
The rain had alternately spit and poured buckets on them, making every step a slick one despite the trekking pole Eva used with her free hand.
Angela focused on watching the path, keeping Eva supported by holding her around the waist with one arm and grasping the hand thrown over her shoulders with the other. They hadn’t done much talking, saving their breaths for the grunts that expelled from their lungs with every jerk of their steps.
She tried desperately to ignore the way every joint felt taut and achy, especially her hips and bothersome knee. And then there was the burning where her toenail used to be . . .
Marc glanced down at his watch, his lips drawn into a straight line.
Eva hopped over a small rock, nearly tripping Angela in the process. “How are we doing on time?”
“Twelve minutes left. Maybe a quarter mile.”
“Let’s pick up the pace.” Eva inclined her head toward Angela, a question in her bloodshot eyes.
Was the strain too much for her? The mother in Angela wanted to make Eva stop and rest—but the newly awakened competitor knew they’d all regret it if they didn’t give every last ounce of sweat and pain to the effort. “Okay.” Angela increased their speed, and it worked for a minute or two, but Eva soon stumbled, and they both ended up on the ground.
Eva pushed the heels of her hands against her forehead. “We tried. Now you guys run. Finish.”
Hadn’t Eva heard Angela the first time? “Marc, I need your help.” She maneuvered so Eva was behind her. “Put her onto my back, will you?”
“You can put her on mine again.”
“Yeah, I’m too big for you.”
“Are you kidding?” Angela huffed. “You’re a tiny twig of a woman and I’m . . . well, not. Marc’s back is shot, and we don’t have time to argue. Get on my back so we can finish.”
Despite her grumbling, Eva got onto Angela’s back with Marc’s assistance. Then Marc helped Angela stand and gathered all three rucksacks. They set off at a jog, Eva’s knees tucked against Angela’s waist and under her arms.
Every step felt like running on a trampoline, sinking and then springing from the soil, but thankfully the trail was more imbedded gravel and less dirt and mud.
Angela’s lungs heaved air, and Eva’s prayers and encouragements bounced in and out of her ear. Lightning bolts of pain shot through every muscle in her straining body.
“Three minutes,” Marc yelled just as the bright white of the final checkpoint came into view.
“Oh, thank goodness.” This dream wasn’t over after all. She’d finally get to see one through to the end. Well, there was still tomorrow—but if they could make twenty-five miles today, they could certainly make the last six.
“One minute. Let’s go.”
The flat farmland opened up into a wide valley, mountains and rock arcing above them, and the team crossed the final checkpoint with ten seconds to spare.
Angela put Eva down, and her sister-in-law grabbed her up in an embrace. How could tomorrow possibly feel better than this?
A woman with a green shirt and poncho ran toward them, a clipboard in hand. “The Jamison and Cinelli team, I presume?” Behind her, the campsite looked the same as always—except it was nearly deserted. Where was everyone?
Angela nodded.
“Good, we’ve been waiting. We need all competitors to get to their assigned tents immediately.”
Angela helped Eva stand. “My sister-in-law needs a medic to examine her ankle.”
The older woman’s face looked like stretched canvas over bones. “That’s fine, but the two of you”—she pointed to Marc and Angela—“will need to head to your tents.”
“Is everything all right?” They’d never been confined to their tents before.
“Just a precaution for now. We simply need everyone accounted for.” The woman waved at two men under the medic’s tent and they came jogging over. “Please examine Ms. Jamison’s ankle and then escort her to her tent.”
Eva turned to Angela, her brow furrowed. “Ang . . .”
“I’ll figure out what’s going on. You take care of that ankle.”
When the men tried to help Eva, she leaned toward Marc, who helped her hop to the medic tent.
While the authoritative woman cast a wary eye at her, Angela grabbed her bag and took off for tent 101, then stopped and looked back. The woman had left. Angela tiptoed toward the media tent, where she spied Simon chatting quietly with a short blonde reporter.
He spotted her and came over. “Hey. I was worried about you.”
“Yeah, Eva’s ankle gave out, so we were a bit delayed.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“We almost didn’t make it. But we did.” Instead of joining in with her enthusiasm, though, Simon’s eyebrows knit together. “Wait, what’s wrong?”
Simon glanced around. “They don’t want anyone panicking, but there’s a bad storm about to blow through here. It’s freakish, actually. Unusual at this time of year.”
Angela smoothed her wet hair away from her forehead. “Really? Because we just came through one. Several, in fact.” Studying the now nearly cloudless sky—when had it stopped raining?—she had a hard time believing the ominous weather report to be true.
“There’s about to be round two, and it might be bad enough to flood the area for tomorrow’s race.”
“So what does that mean?”
“That they might have to evacuate you all.”
His words took a moment to sink in. “Evacuate? What about the last stage?”
“The race would be over. Normally they’d just reroute you, but since there’re only six miles left, there aren’t many options that wouldn’t be affected by the storm. So they’d just take you all back to Wanaka by bus and determine winners based on results as of today.”
They wouldn’t get to finish. “No. This can’t be happening.” Not when she’d finally decided to pursue something again, had put her whole heart into it. Had made peace with Wes. With God. Thanked him for giving her a new dream.
Thought that there might be some hope for a future with Simon . . . once she finished this race.
“Angela? I know this is disappointing, but you look really pale.” Simon ran the tips of his fingers down her upper arms. “Are you all right?”
“I . . .” She shook her head. “I’d say this is unbelievable, but why not believe it? Things don’t change, Simon. Not for me.”
It sounded like a pity party, but it wasn’t. It was just the cold, hard truth.
For Angela Jamison, dreaming was just an exercise in the futile.