“You don’t have to do it, mammele. It’s okay, the sponsors understand, it’s all tzedakah. Not an actual competition”

3 km to go

Rain.

Not just rain — a downpour. A heavy, pelting, world-melting storm complete with flashes of lightning. How, how did the weather forecast miss this, exactly?

“So I’ll call the van in a few minutes, okay?” Raizel is saying cheerfully, her chatter weaving in and out between the thrum of the rain. “We’ll have you home in no time.”

Wait. Home?

Nava’s chin snaps up. “Wait… we’re not going to finish the race? The storm’s for sure gonna pass.”

Raizel clucks her tongue. “Oh, zeeskeit, the ground is so wet. And it’s cold and you’re soaked.”

“I can walk in the rain.”

Raizel finally stops moving, turning to face Nava, surprised.

“You don’t have to do it, mammele. It’s okay, the sponsors understand, it’s all tzedakah. Not an actual competition.”

That’s when Nava realizes.

“No one else is finishing the run,” she half asks, half states.

No one is finishing the run.

Maybe she’s crazy.

Nava hesitates.

“I’ll finish the run,” she finds herself saying, and then, before Raizel can find her voice, she plunges back into the downpour.

Earlier that morning…

10 km to go

The woman at the starting point hands Nava a map, a bottle of water, and a branded fanny pack.

“Here’s where we are, here’s the path, and here’s the end point. When you reach it, you’ll be at the back of the building, walk around to the front and head inside for the brunch. Along the way, there are three stations where volunteers will be waiting with water. You can stop there if you need to catch your breath….”

Nava nods along; she knows this in her sleep. She planned it, actually. Well, parts of it — she’d had nothing to do with the fanny packs. And she doesn’t know who this woman is either; she must be one of Ma’s volunteer corps.

“So, if that’s all clear, you can start whenever you’re ready,” the woman says brightly. “There’s a group starting out just over there.”

Nava’s eyes flit over to the group. A familiar blond pony wig swings in the center.

She hitches a smile onto her face. “I’d rather run alone,” she says.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1081)