Running Shoes
His lungs are burning. Ten steps further, then another ten, then ten more.
It will be light out soon. Dean will wonder where he is. The day will start, the laptop will be out, the coffee will burn his stomach, breakfast will sit like a brick, he will sit like a brick in the front seat on the road to wherever. He'll try to doze. Bad dreams will shock him out of sleep. Jessica will still be gone. His father will still be gone. His mind will whirl around, his thoughts will trip over each for attention.
But right now his thoughts are straight. He counts. He's been at this for an hour so far. He doesn't need a watch. He counts each stride. Two steps every second, sixty seconds a minute, sixty minutes an hour. Seventy two hundred steps. He'll go to eight thousand. A nice even number. Eight hundred, seven ninety nine, seven ninety eight, seven ninety seven more steps, then he'll stop. Compulsive much?
For now he just pounds out the steps.