I Am the Messenger - Page 61

I did.

And I lost.

Tommy also found something extra that day and beat me by at least five yards.

I was eleven.

He was ten.

Nearly a decade later, here I am again, still chasing someone faster, stronger, and better.

After nearly a kilometer, my breathing collapses.

He looks back.

My legs buckle.

I stop.

It's over.

A laugh breaks from his lips, maybe twenty meters ahead.

"Bad luck, Ed," and he turns away again. He's gone.

Watching his legs disappear into the darkness, I stand there, climbing memory.

A dark wind makes its way through the trees.

The sky is nervous. Black and blue.

My heart applauds inside my ears, first like a roaring crowd, then slows and slows until it's a solitary person, clapping with unbridled sarcasm.

Clap. Clap.

Clap.

Well done, Ed.

Well given up.

I stand in long grass and hear the river now for the first time. It sounds like it's drinking. When I look toward it, I see the stars in it. They look like they're painted to the surface of the water.

The cab, I think. It's open. The keys are also still in it, which is the number one sin any cabdriver can make in pursuit of a run

ner. A cardinal sin, in fact. You always take the keys. You always lock up. Except me.

I see the cab in my mind.

On the road, alone.

Both doors are open.

"I have to go back," I whisper, but I don't.

I remain still until first light shows up, and I see my brother and me racing.

Myself, failing.

Tags: Markus Zusak
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