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Sam breathes in. He breathes out. Overhead the sky roils with threatening clouds. He keeps running, one step after the other, hitting the ground in an evenly paced thump thump thump.
It’s three miles into town from the bunker. Sam runs it with a backpack slung on his shoulders, ready to run back with a carton of milk and a dozen eggs weighing it down.
They’d just gotten back from a two-week long hunt yesterday, and their perishables had long since perished. Sam woke up with a hankering for cereal, and having a craving at all is miles away from the norm for him so he decided it would be worth it. He’d been wanting to go on a run anyways—the fifteen hours in the car were killer on him.
So he runs, steady, even breathing, in out in out in out.
He’s running on the road, doing his best to dodge the bits near the edge that are falling away. County roads, they haven’t been fixed since before they moved in. It’s almost familiar now, he knows exactly where the chunks of asphalt have been worn away, knows the curve where the line for the lane and the shoulder of the road are the exact same thing. He knows that there’s a man from town who’ll drive on the opposite side of the road on his way to work in a blue ford truck, but unless someone’s driving through, no one’s at risk of hitting him. Seeing a car on this road is pretty rare.
He flexes his hands, fingers chilled in the rush of cool air. The backpack is pulled tight against his back so the concealed .45 in his bag doesn’t bounce back and forth with his movement.
No earbuds in his ears. His have gone missing, somewhere between here and two hunts ago. He should pick some new ones up. He puts it on the mental list he’s carrying with him.
There’s a low sound of thunder that rolls slowly over him. It’s quiet, and he didn’t see any lightning, so he keeps running, ignoring the threat of the few drops of rain that fall on his face.
He can see the few houses up ahead that mean he’s near the main part of town. They’re all old, worn down, but the yards are well-kept, and the fields attached are full of crops, growing beautifully.
Sometimes the world is a wonder. Sometimes it’s all worth it.
Dean doesn’t get it, why Sam needs time to stare out the window, why he watches all of the happy animal compilations on the internet, why he keeps reading when he’s done researching, why he likes to talk to store clerks and gas station attendants.
Sometimes he just needs reminding that the world is good. That it is something worth suffering for.
And now—as he runs with rain in the air, sees peaceful homes in the morning light, feels the breeze brushing past as he puts one step in front of the other—he sees it. He absorbs it.
It is good, and it’s worth it.
It’s practically an out-of-body experience, like he’s watching himself sprint down the pothole-ridden road and seeing every part of the world around him.
Worth the nightmares, the late nights, the terror, the pain, the loss, the grief. This makes it worth it.
He hits a sidewalk for the first time during his run, hops the curb and keeps running, slowing his strides slightly. There’s a woman walking a dog on the other side of the street. He gives a friendly wave, and she returns it.
Someone else’s dog starts barking at him when he runs past their yard, and he just keeps going on. Two more blocks and he hits main street, sees a couple of cars rumble past on their various ways in-or-out of town.
Finally he hits the single grocery store, slows to a walk and catches his breath outside the doors, leaning against the brick to stretch his legs. The rain is still threatening, not doing anything other than sprinkling a few sporadic drops every couple minutes. He takes a look up at the sky and smiles.
Sam walks into the store.
“Hey, how’s it going?” That’s Kelli, the girl who works the morning shift. She’s a young single mom. Her son comes to work with her, Sam can see him playing with a puzzle behind the checkout.
“Hey,” Sam says with a wave and a nod, still slightly out of breath, “good, you?”
She smiles, “Good, other than the weather! Looks like a storm’s a brewin’, hoping it doesn’t flood or nothin’.”
Sam tilts his head in agreement, “That wouldn’t be very fun.”
“No, not at all,” she says with a laugh, before going back to tapping some buttons on the cash register.
Sam moves to the back of the small store to the refrigerated section. He pulls out a half-gallon, tucks it under his arm. He hears someone come in the doors, Kelli giving the same greeting and small talk to whoever it is. He moves to the eggs, starts inspecting the cartons for broken shells.
A man in a cowboy hat and boots rounds the corner to the same area. Sam glances up at him, gives him a generic nod of the head.
“How’s it goin’?” The man says in greeting, pushing his small cart to the milk.
“Good, you?” Sam asks, finally selecting his eggs and stacking the carton on top of the milk in his arms.
“Good, thanks.” the man says as he pulls out a gallon of milk. Sam starts walking away, down the other aisle.
“Hey,” the man calls, stopping Sam in his tracks, “you one of those guys that live out near the old factory?”
Sam is immediately nervous. A town like this, it’s impossible to remain truly invisible, so they don’t. They know the people in town, and the people in town know their faces, if not always their names.
“Yeah,” he says, trying to keep his voice even and neutral.
“Huh,” the man says, “good to meet ya’ then. Heard a lot about you, my brother Saul, he’s the clerk down at the gas station.”
Sam recognizes the name, “Oh, gotcha.”
There’s a pause hovering on the edge of awkward, and then the man tilts his hat, “Be seein’ you around.”
Sam breathes out the tension in his shoulders, “See you.”
He walks up to the check out, grabbing a bag of dried fruit along the way.
Kelli checks him out with that perpetual smile, they talk a little more about the weather as she rings him up, and her son drops his puzzle all over the floor. Sam watches her sigh, hands on her hips, and take on a completely different tone of voice.
“Phoenix, you dropped the puzzle, now we need to pick it up.”
“O-tay!” Comes the cheerful reply as Phoenix wiggles down from the counter to start picking up the pieces. Sam can’t help the smile that works its way onto his face.
“Sorry about that,” Kelli says as she turns back around, clicking another button on the register to start printing a receipt. It scrolls out of the machine and she tucks it in the same bag as the eggs.
“Have a good one,” Sam says, grabbing his items.
“You too,” Kelli replies, “stay dry out there, looks like a big storm.”
“Will do,” Sam says, with no intention of honoring that commitment.
He walks out of the store and down the street past the other shops—hairdresser, restaurant, farm supply store—before sliding the backpack off his back and packing the milk, eggs, and fruit in, cushioning the eggs with the extra plastic bag and putting them cautiously on top. He adjusts the straps so it rests securely against his back and rolls his shoulders. He starts walking faster, breaking into a jog, and then into a run. His muscles complain at the second go-round, but he pushes through the strain.
Three miles to go. The sprinkles of water start coming faster and faster, and soon it seems the clouds have suddenly dropped the heavy weight they were carrying. The rain comes down in sheets and Sam can barely see where he’s running.
A manic grin overtakes his face as he keeps on, shoes taking on water and socks growing soggy. Soon he’s splashing in puddles, water spraying up to his knees.
He feels alive. And that’s a rarity he’s going to enjoy.