We had crossed the line in 4:03. The clock above the line now read 4:09. If he had walked that last mile, as he had intended to (and probably believed he would until the moment he refused to do it), we would most likely still have been on the course, approaching the line just then. A woman passed me on my left, one of the many exhausted runners streaming around us, as we started to finally walk away from the line, farther into the chute and toward its rewards. There was a very loud noise.
Oh, right, it was *that* Boston Marathon! I’d forgotten that he was so close (in time and place) to the bomb.
