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you’ll get a glare, and we don’t want that, do we? But you need to be ready or you’ll miss the shot.”
    She swore that if he told her she needed to be ready one more time, she was going to start screaming. “Yes, you mentioned that.”
About twenty times now,
she silently added. “And I assure you, I’ll be ready.”
    He acted as though she hadn’t spoken. “I know what we can do. Do you have any of your business cards with you?”
    She found one in the bottom of her purse and handed it to him. She didn’t have a logo or a business address on her cards, just her name and her cell phone number. She’d had them printed after she had left her old job. Trying to stretch every dollar, she was determined to use all of them before she had more made.
    Harrington unzipped a pocket in the back of his running shorts and pulled out a thin leather wallet. He opened it to slip her card in but stopped as though he’d just had a second thought. Stuffing the wallet back into his pocket, he said, “I think I’ll give this to someone on the film crew.” He knelt down on one knee and tucked her card in his right sock. “He can call you when I get close to the last hill. You know, so you can be ready.”
    Ready for what? She was dying to ask that question just to seehow he would react. Not well, she guessed. He didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, and normally this early in the morning, neither did she.
    He stretched his arms over his head, rolled his shoulders as though he were trying to get rid of a crick in his neck, then said, “Okay, I’d better get going. I like to be the first to sign in, and I’ll need to limber up even more. I allow thirty minutes for stretching.”
    “Exactly thirty minutes?”
    “Yes, of course. I don’t like to be surprised, so I plan down to the last detail. I believe it’s important to be precise. You might want to mention that in your article about me.”
    “You’d better get going then … if you want to keep on schedule.”
    “Yes, you’re right.”
    He was jogging down the path when she called out, “Good luck.”
    He glanced back at her. “I don’t need luck. See you soon.”
    Sophie was happy to be rid of him for a little while. She backtracked to a coffee shop three short blocks away, drank two cups of hot tea, and, feeling human again, headed to the starting line to watch the race.
    Runners were milling around the street with numbers safety-pinned to their shirts. She had her camera ready to take the photo of Harrington as he started out, assuming that he would be in the front of the pack, but she couldn’t find him anywhere. She circled to the other side of the starting line, found an empty park bench, and stepped up on it, craning her neck to find Harrington in the throng. Still no sign of him. His red T-shirt should have made it easier for her to pick him out of the crowd, but who knew that so many people would be wearing red today?
    The loud pop of the starting gun sent the runners scurrying for position. A sea of faces streamed before her, but none of them belonged to William Harrington. She had missed him.
    Irritated, Sophie slumped down on the bench with her camerain her lap. If Harrington was so adamant that she get a shot of him at the beginning of the race, why wasn’t he in front? He had been one of the first runners to arrive at the park, even before the organizers had set up their tables, so he’d had ample time to get a good spot. Why would he let others take off ahead of him? With thousands of runners swarming down the street like some massive colony of ants, there was no way for her to see every one.
    She looked around the crowd of spectators for some sign of a film crew and couldn’t see any.
    There was nothing to do now but wait. The course of the race wound through the streets and ended half a block from where she was standing. She made her way to the finish line to watch for the winner to appear.
    Minutes later she saw a figure rounding a