I stayed up late reading the Bible, perusing every passage about sin that I knew of until my tired eyes refused to focus on the words any longer, sliding over them like two magnets with the same charge. Finally, I crawled into my bed with my rosary, mumbling prayers until I drifted off into a restless sleep. A strange kind of numbness settled over me as I said Mass that morning, as I laced up my running shoes afterwards. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was emotional exhaustion, maybe it was simply the shock of yesterday carrying over into today. But I didn’t want numb—I wanted peace. I wanted strength. Taking the country road out of town to avoid Poppy, I ran farther than I normally did, pushing myself harder and faster, moving until my legs cramped and my breath screamed in and out of my chest. And instead of going straight to my shower, I staggered inside of the church, my hands laced above my head, my ribs slicing themselves apart with pain.
