I wake up to the sound of my cell phone’s alarm. It’s 6:18 am. Two snoozes. The June sun has already risen, and I can see light leaking around the edges of my blackout curtains. I debate snoozing again, but that’s not the way to get a state record. Besides, my summer job begins today and I have to be there by eight o’clock. Reluctantly, I get out of my warm bed and undress in the cool air-conditioned room. I put on my running clothes and head downstairs.

  No one else in the house is awake yet, so I forego blending a smoothie and just drink some orange juice and eat two bananas while scrolling through my friends’ recent activity on my phone.

  “Okxana, why are you up so early? You’re so loud.” My little sister, Ksenia, is standing on the stairs.

  “I’m not being loud and I get up at this time every morning.”

  “I heard you flushing the toilet.”

  “Why didn’t you just go back to sleep?”

  “Can I use your phone?”

  “No. I need it for my music.”

  “I want to play that zombie game.”

  “Just use the computer,” I suggest.

  “It’s not on the computer. It’s so unfair I can’t have a phone.”

  “I didn’t get one until middle school and Mom says you already play too many games.”

  “You’re so boring.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Can you make me some oatmeal?”

  I look outside and see sunshine overhead, but a dark cloudbank in the distance threatens to prematurely close the lid on this sunny day.

  “Okay. Fine.” I boil the water, add the oats, wait five minutes, and pour them in a bowl. She is sitting in the living room watching some pointless video on a laptop. I place the bowl next to her with a spoon.

  “Did you add milk and honey?”

  “You didn’t ask for milk and honey.”

  “I want milk and honey.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Could you please add milk and honey?”

  I get the milk from the refrigerator and add some to her bowl, then squeeze in some honey and mix it together.

  “Anything else?”

  “Juice?”

  “You’re eight years old. You can get your own juice.”

  “Worst sister ever,” she mutters.

  I sigh. “I’m just doing my normal run.” I put on my running shoes and my hair back in a ponytail. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.” She doesn’t respond.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I go out to the front yard to do some quick pre-run stretches. Once I feel the morning stiffness dissipate, I put my water bottle in my hydration belt and strap it on. The thermometer on the porch reads eighty-five degrees, so I’ll definitely need it. I put my earbuds in and start my pop playlist on my phone, then secure it in my belt. I set off at a run-walk down the street with thirty seconds of moderate speed running then thirty seconds of walking and intermittent high-stepping.

  The neighborhood is silent aside from the occasional bird chirp. No one else is out and about. When I come to Mrs. Johnson’s house at the corner, I’m surprised to see her trashcans knocked down and her lawn strewn with garbage and ripped trash bags. I wonder what could have gotten into them. She’ll have fun cleaning that up.

  Across the street is an old dirty sign reading, “ROAD CLOSED – BRIDGE OUT 2MI AHEAD”. I cross and walk around the sign to the abandoned road that winds through the woods into the distance before me.

  Those gray clouds are closer now thanks to the oatmeal delay, but I think getting caught in a summer storm will be more exhilarating than a problem if it happens. When I’m ready, I switch music playlists, set my phone to start tracking my run, and with heavy metal playing in my ears, I take off. Despite being abandoned for thirty years, the road provides a mostly smooth and obstacle free running course. The pounding double bass drums and blazing guitar drive me to keep up my pace. I resist the urge to check my progress. My goal for this run is to beat eleven minutes. By the end of my junior year of high school, I hope to beat ten.

  I hear peals of thunder in the distance, pounding louder than the band’s drummer, and it spurs me on faster. It must be pretty close to be heard over the music but not so close that I see any lightning. Familiar landmarks pass by: the fallen tree suspended in the air by two other trees; the part of the road where half of a lane has sunk and slid down the hill towards the creek it winds along; the abandoned warehouse and its crumbling parking lot being reclaimed by nature; the walls of what had been a mill barely visible below at the creek’s edge; the tree laying across the road near the three kilometer mark that I have to hurdle. There are just two hundred meters left, and I push with all my remaining strength. The break in the road where a bridge once crossed the creek is just ahead and I end my timer and stop just short of the gap.

  My phone reads 10:22:9 and I smile. It’s my best time ever and if I can do 3,200 meters that fast on uneven ground, I am sure my time on the track when school starts up again will be even better. I walk to the very end of the road, where there is still a concrete transition to the former bridge overlooking the creek below. I switch my music to country while I catch my breath and drink some water from my bottle. Ruined pieces of the steel bridge girders and parts of the deck can still be seen down below to the left sunk into the mud at a bend of the creek. It is about a twenty-foot drop down to the stony embankment that abuts the muddy brown water. The wind is really picking up, and the gray clouds are now overhead, viewable through the gap in the trees above the creek.

  On the other side of the creek, there is a white trailer and a few pieces of construction equipment that weren’t there yesterday. I think I remember my mom saying something about them finally deciding to replace the bridge. I may be losing my private running course.

  A sudden gust almost makes me lose my balance and go over the edge. I quickly step back and take a few deep breaths to calm down from the scare. I drink some more water, then put my water bottle back in my belt. I do some stretching to keep limber for the return run. Drops of water begin to fall and it almost immediately starts pouring. The temperature has dropped, and the rain is cold. Instead of lingering here a while like I normally do, I start heading back home. This isn’t the refreshing summer rain I had expected. I begin walking, then hurry into a jog, which becomes a run as I see a bright flash of lightning almost simultaneously with a deafening crack of thunder.

  The wind is driving rain into my face now and I’m already soaking wet and freezing. It’s gotten dark and branches are swaying violently, raining leaves, twigs, and larger debris down on me. The thunder follows immediately after the lightning and then the hail starts. I hear it all around and though I am somewhat protected by the trees, there are many gaps over the roadway. The hailstones start getting larger, some the size of baseballs. I cover my head with my arms and search for the closest cover. Going under a tree will probably protect me from the hail, but it’s not the place to go when there’s lightning. A large hailstone hits me on the shoulder, and I cry out in pain. I see that I am near the abandoned warehouse and sprint across its moss and weed covered parking lot to the remains of the building. The front is all boarded shut, but there is a doorway on the side that is wide open, and I make my way inside.