12

Marianna.

I shower in eight minutes flat, a new personal record,and then stand dripping in front of the closet, confronting the next crisis: I have nothing to wear.

I own exactly the following items of clothing right now: the underwear I was wearing when I arrived (washed in the sink, dried on the towel rack, dignity in shambles), one sundress that's still slightly damp from the airport incident, and approximately seventeen pieces of Duane Richter's wardrobe.

None of these options scream "hire me."

I check my bank account. $14.27. The $200 airline compensation hasn't hit yet.

But I can't show up to an interview at Miami's premier sports rehabilitation center wearing a billionaire's stolen hoodie.

There's a Target three blocks away.

I do the math. I have a credit card with about $400 of available balance before I hit my limit. I've been trying not to use it—every dollar is another dollar I'll be paying interest on for the rest of my life—but this is an emergency.

This is, quite literally, a career emergency.

Forty-five minutes and $109.96 later, I'm standing at the Target checkout with the first blazer that fits, pants that are slightly too long, and flats I already know will give me blisters.

I hand over my credit card and try not to think about how I'm going into debt to buy clothes for an interview that might not even lead to a job.

The cashier—a bored teenager with impressive eyeliner—scans everything without comment.

"You want a bag?"

"Please."

She hands it over. I clutch it like a lifeline.

Kinetic Performance Institute is on the 40th floor of one of those Brickell buildings that looks like it's trying to intimidate the skyline into submission. I step out of the elevator at 2:52 PM and immediately want to step back in.

The waiting area smells like eucalyptus and money. There's a water feature built into one wall—actual water, trickling down actual stone—which seems like a weird flex for a sports rehabilitation center but what do I know. The chairs are the kind of aggressive mid-century modern that looks cool in magazines and feels like sitting on a stylish brick.

I lower myself onto one and try not to fidget.

On the walls, framed photos of athletes I half-recognize—a swimmer mid-stroke, a basketball player dunking, a sprinter frozen at the finish line. No F1 drivers, I notice.

Behind the reception desk, a woman with flawless box braids and nails that could qualify as weapons is typing at a speed that suggests she's either incredibly efficient or playing a very intense game of online Scrabble.

"Hi," I say, approaching with what I hope is confident professionalism and not the energy of someone who bought this blazer three hours ago. "I'm Marianna Reyes. I have a 3 PM interview with Dr. Lindholm?"

She checks her screen without pausing her typing. Impressive. "Of course. Have a seat, she'll be right with you."

I return to my stylish brick.

The waiting area is positioned near a large open space that looks like an employee lounge—comfortable couches, a coffee station, and a massive wall-mounted TV currently showing... oh. The race.

I forgot. It's race day. The Miami Grand Prix is happening right now, probably less than ten miles from where I'm sitting.

There are maybe a dozen people gathered around the screen, most wearing Kinetic-branded polo shirts. They're watching intently, some standing with crossed arms, others perched on the edges of couches. The energy is tense. Excited.

I can see the broadcast from here—cars streaking around the track, the distinctive Miami skyline in the background, graphics showing lap times and positions—but I force myself to look away.

Don't think about it. Don't think about who's in one of those cars.

"Ms. Reyes?"

I stand up so fast I nearly knock over my bag.

Dr. Margot Lindholm is the kind of woman who makes you want to sit up straighter just by walking into the room.

She's maybe fifty, with the sort of no-nonsense energy that suggests she's fired people before breakfast and felt fine about it. Her hair is that expensive shade of blonde that's probably natural but you can't be sure, and she's wearing reading glasses on a chain around her neck like a librarian who could also kill you.

I like her immediately. I'm also terrified of her.

"Ms. Reyes." She shakes my hand—brief, efficient, not trying to prove anything. "Thank you for coming in on short notice. Race week."

She says it like that explains everything. Which, apparently, it does.

The conference room she leads me to has a view of the bay that probably costs more per square foot than my entire Brooklyn apartment. Through the glass wall, I can see the employee lounge—couches, coffee station, a massive TV currently showing the race. I force myself not to look at it.

Dr. Lindholm opens a folder. My resume stares up at me, looking thin and desperate.

"Eastside Physical Therapy," she says. "Tell me about that."

So I do. I tell her about Mrs. Patterson, seventy-three, knee replacement, who cried the first time she walked without a walker and made me cry too. About Mr. Goldman, who complained constantly but brought me cookies every Friday. About the rotator cuffs and the torn ACLs and the post-surgical patients who came in broken and left a little less broken.

I don't tell her I got fired for disappearing without notice. Don't tell her I'm currently wearing a $45 blazer I bought this morning on a credit card I can't pay off. Don't tell her that my primary qualification for this job is "desperate."

She nods along, her face giving away absolutely nothing.

"Why sports rehab?" she asks eventually. "Why elite athletes specifically?"

Here's where I'm supposed to give some inspiring speech about passion and dedication and the pursuit of excellence. Here's where I'm supposed to sound like a TED talk come to life.

Instead, what comes out is: "Because they actually want to get better."

Dr. Lindholm's eyebrows lift. Shit. That sounded bitter.

"I mean—" I scramble. "In traditional PT, a lot of patients are there because their doctor told them to be. They do the minimum. They skip appointments. They don't do their home exercises and then complain that they're not improving." I'm talking too fast now, but I can't stop. "Athletes are different. They're motivated. They understand that recovery is part of the job. They push themselves. They want to get back to a hundred percent, not just 'good enough to function.' And I—" I pause, try to find the right words. "I want to work with people who actually give a shit."

Silence.

Oh God. I just said "give a shit" in a job interview.

"And you understand that our clients have... particular expectations? They're used to being the best at what they do. They can be demanding. Difficult, even."

I think about Duane. About his one-word answers and his flat stares and his absolute refusal to make anything easy.

"I can handle difficult."

For the first time, Dr. Lindholm smiles. "Good. Because we work with some of the most high-profile athletes in—"

A noise from outside the conference room cuts her off.

Not a noise. A collective gasp. The kind of sound a group of people makes when something terrible happens on screen.

Both of us turn toward the glass wall.

On the massive TV screen, I can see—

I can see a car. Red and black livery. The Veloce Racing colors.

It's not on the track anymore. It's in the barrier. Or what's left of it.

The footage is replaying in slow motion—the car hitting something, launching into the air, rotating, fragments flying off in every direction like the vehicle is being torn apart by invisible hands. It flips. Once. Twice. Slides upside down across the gravel trap in a shower of sparks and debris before finally coming to rest against the tire barrier.

The car doesn't look like a car anymore. It looks like a crushed aluminum can someone stepped on.

The graphic at the bottom of the screen shows a name.

RICHTER - DNF

Duane.

I'm standing before I realize I've moved. My chair scrapes against the floor, loud in the sudden silence of the conference room.

"No—"

The word comes out before I can stop it. Not a scream. Worse. A sound like something breaking.

Dr. Lindholm is saying something. I can't hear it.

The broadcast cuts to a wide shot. Fire marshals with extinguishers. Medics in orange. The halo—that titanium hoop above the cockpit that's supposed to protect drivers from exactly this kind of—

Is he moving? Why isn't he moving?

"Ms. Reyes?"

Dr. Lindholm's voice finally penetrates. I turn to look at her, and I must look absolutely unhinged because her expression has shifted from professional neutrality to something approaching concern.

"I—" My voice doesn't work right. "Sorry, I just—"

On the screen, the camera zooms in on the destroyed car.

And I can't breathe.