Across the Universe - Beth Revis [48]
I look around me. The hospital opens up to a flower garden. The path under my feet is not made from natural mulch, but some sort of rubbery-plastic. I step over to the grass and jog a bit in place, warming up. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see the steel-gray metal of the walls that curve over this level of the ship, trapping us inside a metallic bubble.
I run with my back to the closest wall, straight out into the green fields. This ship’s level is vast, but not so wide that I cannot see the wall on the other side. Maybe three or four kilometers in diameter, less than the 5K track I ran for cross-country. Still, it’s small enough to make me claustrophobic, but large enough to make me marvel at its size.
A road winds around the area, but I ignore it. I run through rows of corn that are as tall as my shoulders; I race along the fence dotted with white puffs of sheep and goats who keep their distance from the low fence surrounding the pasture. I startle a group of fat chickens that have wandered onto my path. They flutter up, chattering at me, but when I turn my head to look back at them moments later, they’ve already forgotten me.
A sheen of sticky sweat films over my arms, pooling in the creases of my elbows and at my neck. I suck in the cool, recycled air. I can almost imagine that I’m just in an elaborate gym, that when I’m done running, I can leave, and Mom will be there, waiting for me in the car, and we can go home. The thought of it makes me stop, almost brings me to my knees. I breathe deeply, not because of running now, but because if I don’t, I’ll start sobbing.
They’re so close.
And so, so far away.
I run again. I cannot let myself think about anything. I can only run.
My legs pump up-down, I force myself to take longer and longer strides, to use my arms to make my entire body fall into the race. My muscles strain and burn, but I revel in the pain. Although the doctor must have done something to make my muscles not atrophy, they still feel unused, not as well-oiled as before I was frozen.
I turn a corner and see someone kneeling on the ground, hunched over some plants. I slow down, and the man looks up.
“’Lo,” he says in greeting.
“Um,” I say.
His eyes rove up and down, soaking in my pale skin, red hair, green eyes, and he instantly turns wary. I can see it in his face—his eyes narrow in suspicion, his mouth tightens. His grip on the trowel shifts, and it’s more a weapon than a gardening tool.
I nod and continue running. When I turn back, he’s still watching me, still clutching the trowel.
Run. Run harder.
When I reach that moment—when everything in my body is focused only on racing forward—that is when my mind is finally silent, when I can forget about everything the doctor said, when I don’t have to remember all that I’ve lost and will never have again.
It’s the zone. It’s why I run. That feeling of being nothing but movement. I tried to explain it to Jason once. He even went on a jog with me. He didn’t get it, but he got that I like it, and that was good enough. We walked back to his house after jogging less than a quarter mile. We didn’t talk, we just held hands, and even though I hadn’t broken a sweat with that baby run, my heart was still racing when I looked at him—
Don’t think of that.
Don’t think at all.
Run.
My thick braid swishes against my neck. I am aware of a trickle of sweat down my face, nothing else. I stop when the fields fade to gravel, then pavement. This is the city I saw from my window, although it is significantly smaller than any city I’ve ever seen on Earth. Mom once gave a speech to the biological engineering department at North Carolina State University, and they took us on a tour of the campus. This city is about the size of the old part of the campus, with stacked up metal trailers instead of dorms and college buildings. A thin tube of plastic hugs the curving metal wall behind the city. I stare at it curiously,