Non-classifiable
All I did was ask what he'd given the horse. I didn't say the words illegal doping. I didn't say anything about cheating. I asked a simple question. What did you just give the horse?
"Go out for a pass," he said.
The old lady was still ahead of us. She had already reached the park and was walking alongside it. I ran past her into the park. Drew's arm arced back and over his head. He sent the Frisbee sailing through the air. But it didn't come straight at me. Instead it curved to the left. I ran for it. I was in the clear too—until the old lady in the black coat suddenly started down the path that cut through the park. She must not have been paying attention. I yelled for her to look out, but all she did was turn and stare at me. Maybe she hadn't heard what I said. Then, boink, the Frisbee hit her on the side of the head. I saw the starteled expression on her face. She staggered a little to one side. Her foot slipped off the path. Her ankle twisted. Then she crashed to the ground and just lay there.
I picture him in his dirty clothes, with his knotted hair, and I feel annoyed. I am tired of feeling bad for him. It isn't my fault he was the way he was.
I suppose I could be less invisible if I were one of the guys who joked around in the locker room. Or if I broke curfew. Or if I complained. It's just easier to not be noticed. That way people don't expect things from you. There's no pressure, nothing to fear.
Halfway down the run I knew I was skiing the best I ever had. If I kept pushing, I would easily stay at number one.
Beneath my helmet, I grinned my grin of fear. And as I cut into a steep turn, I saw it. But couldn't believe it.
Wire. Black wire stretched between two trees at waist height. I was flashing toward it at thirty meters per second. Hitting the wire at that speed would slice me in two.
