Brain Damage

by Freida McFadden

And none of that hurt. The truth is, I didn’t feel it at all. What hurt is everything that came after.

I honestly don’t know why my cat is such a spoiled diva, especially considering three months before I adopted her, she was eating out of garbage cans.

“You’re pretty fast,” a male voice says from behind me. “What’s your time for a mile?” I slow down to a stop, channeling my frustration into anger. I don’t like it when people talk to me when I’m running. The last thing I want when I’m trying to train for a marathon is comments from the peanut gallery.

The man starts to push Jamie’s wheelchair past me, but Jamie stops him. “No,” he says again. “On her right side. I’ve got to be on her right side.”

“I’m only allowed one liter of fluid per day,” he says. “Do you know how much one liter of fluid is?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Neither do I, because this is America and we don’t use the metric system here. But let me tell you something, it’s not much.”