Sam hitched the headband higher on his forehead.  One more mile before he could call it quits.  He swiped at his sweat-sheened face with the back of his hand.

Admit it, Hastings, he told himself in disgust. You're out of shape. Too much time spent campaigning and not enough working out had taken their toll.

He'd signed up to run five miles for a benefit to raise money for the community's homeless. And he intended to meet his goal… if only his lungs held out.

The sound of feet slapping the pavement behind him signaled that he was no longer alone.

"Hi." The woman now keeping pace with him was young, probably no older than twenty-five or so. "Carla Stevens."

"Sam Hastings," he panted out between breaths. He glanced at her with a certain amount of resentment. She wasn't even breathing hard.

"I know."

"You do?"

"Um-hmm." She smiled. "See you after the race." She jogged ahead, her steady pace quickly outstripping his own.

"Yeah," he called after her. He watched, liking the way she moved, with an easy grace that made his own efforts seem heavy and labored. He gritted his teeth and geared himself up for the last mile. He'd make it. He had to. He could see the headlines now if he didn't finish. 

"City Council hopeful passes out on last mile of charity race."

Easy goes it, he reminded himself. The race belongs not to the swift but to the…  He couldn't remember the end of the proverb and decided it didn't matter. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

"Number fifty-four," a race official announced as Sam crossed the finish line.

"Thanks," he said, accepting a glass of juice a volunteer handed him. He swallowed it in one gulp and wished he had another.

"Here," a familiar voice said. "You look like you need this."

He looked up to find the pretty lady who had passed him earlier holding a glass of juice.

 "Thanks."

 "You're welcome." She pointed to a shaded area. "Would you like to rest? I don't know about you, but I'm bushed." She sank down on the yellowed grass and gestured for him to do the same. He propped himself against the trunk of a maple tree, its branches forging a crimson canopy overhead.

 She didn't look bushed, Sam thought. She was probably just being kind. At the moment, he felt every one of his thirty-two years…and then some.

 "I've been wanting to talk with you, Mr. Hastings. I need your help."