I slog to the car after school amidst the domes of umbrellas. Shivering, I dodge the runoff from their moving roofs and fumble over my own unfamiliar feet. Angela is waiting patiently in her small grey Honda – the one with the cross country bumper sticker – and I act as though her cheeriness does not anger me. If anything, she looks forward to these days while I try to make sixth period last forever. I struggle to ignore the way her foot effortlessly pushes the gas and her hands deftly grip the steering wheel turning smoothly onto Fifteenth Street.

We earned our licenses within a month of each other, but the doctor has not yet allowed me to regain the use of mine. “You haven’t built up the reflexes or strength to safely drive again.” He is, of course, referring to my stiffened right ankle and bent left leg. At first, our mothers took turns driving us to our physical therapy sessions, but now that Angela, Angie, is healed enough, she takes us. How can I not resent her?

It happened five months ago. Angie and I always ran double-days for cross three times a week. We wore reflective gear and in the winter, headlamps. We carried whistles; we stuck to familiar streets in populated areas, but in the end, it wasn’t enough.

There was no sidewalk on that road, but I don’t know if it would have made a difference if there had been. He passed us; we kept running. We had no time. Water splashed our feet, our knees as his car skidded and purposefully turned, and his headlights pointed not at the road, but at us. I, in disbelief, thought of my dad’s GPS: when possible, make a legal u-turn. My neighbor Claire found us. She was returning from the gym, but the red of the street stopped her. I don’t remember the impact or if I screamed or what sounds our bodies made as we were knocked over like neon Nike-clad dominoes. I don’t remember the sirens, but I do remember the ambulance of shouted voices and dripping tubes, the odd in between and fuzz that was my mind. It seemed as though all that held me was gauze.

At first, they thought he was simply a drunk driver, but then they realized he was the same man who had shot his girlfriend and stolen a car the day before. Maybe one of us just looked like her, or maybe all women had become the enemy.

During the crash – I don’t know whether or not to call it an accident – my left femur was broken along with my right tibia. I have a long scar along my shin from the surgery which gave me a metal bone and another across my left thigh. My right shin is often swollen, and I am having difficulty regaining the range of motion in that ankle. Angie’s leg was also badly broken and her heel fractured. Her dog, our guard, was killed and we both received concussions along with blood loss. It was Angela who woke up first, Angela who got off crutches and regained the ability to press foot to pedal first. It was I who was hit first. It was I who went into surgery first head bloodied, legs bent in every imaginable shape.

We do not talk on the brief drive to Gary’s; we don’t even listen to music. I think of the word conversation: how the word ‘con’ means ‘with’ in Spanish and how it means ‘against something’ or ‘to learn’ in English. It can be so easy to start a conversation in your mind yet so hard to start one when you are actually with someone. If a conversation is successfully started, people may often turn against one another, but at the same time, much can also be learned. Every drop of rain on the windshield seems to carry a word that adds to my thoughts. Speak… blame... impact…

Angie helps me change shoes when we reach Gary’s office, carefully un-strapping my braces and untying the laces I can’t reach. Today, she doesn’t need any assistance herself. Gary’s office is actually a relief after a day of slippery floors and over-heated classrooms filled with teens fresh from gym class. “How are you today Miss Angie and Miss Marie?” he inquires without glancing up from the lady on the table; his current patient looks as though she’s had a difficult knee replacement. He remains attentive as we proceed to tell him the details of the last three days. He nods and occasionally meets our gaze with eyes so focused, I often wonder if they can see through the flesh to the bones and tendons he works to mend.

The session is difficult, and in my mind, goes poorly. My legs can’t seem to follow the pedals’ motion, so Gary removes me from the stationary bike after only two minutes. Then he lowers my number of heel raises. I am angry at my body for its relief over a briefer workout. I try not to watch Angie; Gary increases the difficulty level while she’s on the bike and teaches her a complicated stretch that resembles a pretzel. I cannot help but compare my awkward shuffle with her even strides across the room. My eyes sting throughout the session, and I don’t talk as much as usual. My movements become jerky and almost desperate. I can tell Gary notices from the way he looks at me, but he makes no comment. I try to be proud of myself for finally working up a sweat, but the throbbing of my legs along with my disappointment dominate my mood.

There is a new knee patient today; another sports injury from the college. He’s taking several language classes and is currently fascinated by names. Angie and I tell him our names, but I don’t quite catch his.

“Angela, messenger of God or angel,” and his voice seems to cherish every syllable as though it were a kiss. “Marie. Bitter, sometimes sea of bitterness.” It is only an afterthought. My eyes feel tight and small, and I can feel Gary’s as they probe my legs and try to breech my skull.

It’s Friday, so Angie comes over after P.T. is finished. I go over what Gary said with my mom and we review my revised exercises together. I agree to sleep downstairs because he recommended that I avoid stairs for the evening. My mom sets Angie and me up on the couches with snacks and arranges bags of towel-wrapped ice around our injuries. She instructs us to stay put for twenty minutes then leaves the room. At first there is only the sound of crinkling plastic and settling ice.

“Something’s up,” Angie states.

“It’s nothing.”

“You know, this isn’t a race” she gently says.

“Says the winner.”

“There’s no winner for this type of thing! It hurts for me too!”

“You can drive and walk without a brace on each leg!” I almost yell, but then see she is crying.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper “this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“It did” she counters.

“Why is this faster for you?” I know I’m crying know too, but my voice is even and my nose is
dry.
“Luck,” she offers “and attitude. You have to believe you’re getting better. It’s like in a race. If you tell yourself you can’t, your body will obey.”

We don’t talk much after this, but it is a silence of settling words that now fills the room. As we put the ice away next to popsicles and ice cream, Angie breaks our silence yet again.

“Do you remember how we used to look for inspirational quotes to recite in our heads when we ran?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

“I found one to think about now: ‘You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.’”

“Who’s it by?” I ask. At first she only shrugs, but then she almost smiles and meets my eyes.

“Someone like us.”