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It was raining. Good, steady rain. The kind of rain that the ground soaks up, keeps moist for days. The kind of rain that the plants love, they bounce and frolic from the heavy drops falling on them.

Corey was running. In this rain? In this rain. He's on a streak. 17 days in a row. Doesn't want to break it now.

Corey is not a great runner. When Corey thinks of himself, runner doesn't show up on the primary list. Father. Husband. Senior Accountant. Brother. Son. Coffee Snob. Maybe another ten or twenty items down the list, would be Runner.

But whatever Corey thought aside, he was out there, in this rain, running. That makes him a runner. Maybe only for the duration of this run. But still.

His leg hurts. More than normal. Thinks he tweaked a nerve or tendon or muscle, something, in the leg. Anatomy is not Corey's strong suit. Tibia, Fibia? Tibula? Fibula? Corey had no clue which was which. Like asking him to name some of the latest generation Pokemon.

Corey is moving slowly. Slower than normal. Which, let's be fair, is already a bit on the slow side. Eleven minute miles on a good day. He's moving closer to fourteen now. Crawling up the hill in front of him, a motionless wave of asphalt.

A man about Corey's age wearing a navy blue tank top, short-shorts, high tube socks, and Chuck Taylor's runs next to Corey.

"Hey, Cor'," the man says.

"Hey, uh hey," Corey responds. "Do we know each other?"

"Yeah, it's me, Duncan," the runner responds, slowing down to match Corey's speed.

"Duncan?" Corey wheezes out between hard breaths.

"Yeah, squirt. Duncan Chalmers!" the man says, smiling.

"Duncan, Chalmers." Corey slows down to a walk, then to a stop. He's looking at the man in disbelief. "That's the same name as my grandfather," Corey says, watching the man run further ahead up the street.

Duncan turns around to look at Corey, still running forward. "Yeah, it's me squirt! I miss ya, see you around the block!" Duncan, much faster than Corey, is already near the top of the hill.

Corey begins to jog forward, sputters out a sound vaguely like "wait" and picks up his pace. He's sprinting. Or, what his body feels like is sprinting now. Really closer to nine minute miles.

Duncan crests the hill, stops at the top, looks at Corey, smiles, and then keeps running, the hill eclipsing his figure as he makes his way down.

As Corey finally reaches the top of the hill, his breath ragged and his tibia-fibia bone hurting badly, well, you already know. Duncan was gone, of course he was.

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