But twenty minutes in, she risked a glance at Arthur. He was running without the slightest hint of strain, his jaw set in that same composed line.
He noticed her looking. "Eyes forward," he said curtly, though there was no real anger in his tone. Just something tense, tight, something he didn't want to examine too closely.
She swallowed and looked straight ahead. The pace didn't slow.
Thirty minutes passed. Then forty.
Her lungs began to burn. Sweat soaked her hairline, trickling down her neck in cold rivulets. She tried to keep her breathing even, but each inhale felt like it scraped her throat raw.
Surely we're stopping soon, she thought desperately.
But Arthur didn't so much as glance at the time. He kept going, silent, as though determined to run her into the ground.
