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I left Cooper’s at a reasonable hour, but still didn’t get enough sleep that night. Meeting Mike on time the next morning required a monster go-cup of coffee—the kind that barely fit in the cupholder—and intermittent, steering wheel-squeezing pep talks (you’re not really that tired, suck it up). Mike was easy to spot, his head (clad in baseball cap and sunglasses) popping out of his yellow Jeep in an otherwise empty mall parking lot. He wore a faded maroon, long-sleeved T-shirt over dark, crinkly pants that looked like they belonged in a pick-up basketball game. Or maybe all pants look like basketball pants when you’re Mike’s height.
I was dressed similarly, except in the kind of snug, synthetic leggings people who actually run might wear while running. (I had no idea how they’d come i
