Celeste emerged from the shadows, clutching her sketchbook. "Sorry," she said, not sounding particularly apologetic. "I didn't want to interrupt your training."
"So you've been spying on me instead."
She opened her sketchbook and held it up. In the dim light, Zaden could make out page after page of sketches—all of him in motion, his form captured midstride, muscles defined, face set in concentration. They were beautiful.
"I've been drawing you," she corrected. "There's a difference."
Zaden didn't know how to respond to that. No one had ever paid this kind of attention to him before. Not as something worth capturing, worth preserving.
"Why?" he finally asked.
Celeste closed the book. "Because when you run, it's like watching something that was meant to be exactly what it is." She smiled slightly. "That's rare."
Saturday morning, Zaden broke his routine. Instead of his usual route, he decided to try the track at Mason Park, a well-maintained facility in a better part of town. He'd heard Mr. Larkin mention it was open to the public on weekends.
He'd completed three laps when a hand grabbed his shoulder roughly. "Hey, you can't be here."
The security guard was a heavy-set white man with a ruddy face and a nameplate reading Thompson. "This track is for residents and registered visitors only."
Zaden stepped back. "The sign says public hours on weekends."
"Yeah, public. Not for loitering trash from the east side." The guard's eyes narrowed. "You look like you're casing the place. I've seen your type before."
"I'm just running," Zaden said, keeping his voice even despite the anger rising in his chest.
"Sure, you are," the guard snorted. "Get out before I call the real cops."
As Zaden walked away, he noticed a group of runners on the opposite side of the track, all in matching prep school uniforms, all watching the exchange. One boy in particular stood out: tall, blonde, with an expensive smartwatch and custom running shoes. He was smirking.
What Zaden didn't notice was Celeste sitting on a nearby bench, her phone raised, recording the entire incident.
The prep school team became a recurring problem. They seemed to be everywhere Zaden went: public trails, parks, even the streets near his neighborhood. Their leader, Zaden learned, was named Bryce Whitman, son of a real estate developer and the reigning junior champion for three years running.
"Look who it is," Bryce called out one afternoon as Zaden jogged past them on the riverside path. "The janitor who thinks he's a runner."
His friends laughed on cue. One of them mimicked Zaden's stride in an exaggerated, lumbering way that bore no resemblance to his actual form.
"What are those—paleless specials?" another one jeered, pointing at Zaden's worn sneakers.
Zaden kept his eyes forward and maintained his pace. Mr. Larkin had warned him about wasting energy on anger. "Let it fuel you," the old man had advised, "but never let it control you."
Still, each encounter left a bitter taste in his mouth, a reminder of all the barriers that stood between him and any chance of success.
"What happened?" Mr. Larkin demanded, staring at Zaden's swollen ankle.
Zaden winced as the old man examined it. "Pothole on Jefferson Street. Didn't see it until it was too late."
The truth was more complicated; he'd been distracted, thinking about the marathon again. The registration deadline was approaching, and he still hadn't found a way to enter without belonging to an official running club—a requirement that seemed designed specifically to exclude people like him.
"You need to rest this," Mr. Larkin said firmly. "At least 3 days."
"Can't," Zaden replied. "We don't have three days to waste."
"It's not a waste if it prevents a worse injury." Mr. Larkin's voice was sharp with concern. "You keep pushing like this, you'll break something that won't heal in time."
Zaden shook his head stubbornly. "I'll ice it tonight. It'll be fine tomorrow."