The long summer afternoon gently slides into a gilded twilight as Greg finishes tying his shoe. He straightens and savors the ability to do so without a flinch ahead of the pain, and sets his watch—the watch Sarah gave him a couple of Christmases ago, a runner's timepiece. He looks down at it, then up again. "Going for a run!" he yells to his wife, puts the earbuds in, and heads outside.

Heat rises from the earth as he stands in the back yard and stretches his muscles. This is a routine he never really paid much attention to back in the day; he followed it because it was the best way to prevent damage, but never considered how bad damage could ever be. He stretches his hamstrings, rotates first one ankle, then the other . . . and then, with care, he flexes his right leg, bends at the knee to rest some of his weight on his thigh and calf muscles. He closes his eyes at the sensation of the right quadriceps as it completes the move, smooth and pain-free, no hesitation. That feeling will never, ever get old or boring. A fierce exultation fills him. He resists the urge to pump his fist in the air, adjusts the volume on his iPod, and lopes down the drive.

The day may be nearly done, but the heat hasn't abated much. It doesn't take long before the neck of his tee shirt is damp with sweat. He doesn't care; he pays more attention to the way his body starts to come alive under the pressure of exertion. His heart rate increases, breathing becomes deeper, more intense; muscles bunch and release as his brain registers the brush of his shorts against his knees, the impact of footfalls on the grainy bitumen road surface. The air he breathes in is redolent of fresh-cut hay, hot asphalt, the rank, fecund smell of green, growing things, fresh manure spread on the pastures nearby, and the scent of heat, indefinable but there with everything else. He breathes it in, draws it all deep into his lungs, and enjoys the burst of energy the extra oxygen gives him.

He remembers his first run, some weeks back. He'd started off with a terrible fear lodged deep in his heart, a sharp flint laid against muscle and bone, ready to cut and maim. What if he damaged the new quadriceps somehow? What if that new muscle isn't up to the demands even a short run would make?

"You won't know until you try, amante," Roz had said to him. She'd touched his cheek, then placed her hand over his thigh. "You have to do this."

She hadn't offered to go with him or follow in the truck; she'd known he had to face this on his own. And so he had, knotted with fear as he took on the modest route he'd created. About halfway in he'd realized not only was he not in pain, he felt loose, warm and ready for more. So he'd dared to push and added another half-mile onto the route. When he returned home Roz waited on the back step. As he came into view she stood, her expression turned from anxiety to joy. She'd run to meet him then, as she held out her arms in welcome and celebration.

Greg remembers her long legs wrapped around him later on, and grins. They drank asti spumante that night and ripped up the sheets with lovemaking so fierce it made Hellboy stalk off in indignation at all the noise they made. He'd forgotten how sweet it was to fall asleep in a welter of ripe aromas of sweat and sex, a pile of tangled limbs and delicious exhaustion, his nose buried in his lover's damp hair.

The memory spurs him to increase his speed a bit. He's about a quarter of the way through his route now, headed deeper into the wilds of farms and meadows. The road here is more uneven, mostly patched potholes and crumbled edges, the shoulders washed out and full of sharp cinders left over from the county road crew's attempt to mitigate winter's miserable driving conditions. The uncertain condition of the roadway adds another level of challenge; he has to pay more attention to where he puts his feet. That slows him down a bit, but when he checks his heart rate it's to find he's still in optimum range.

His thoughts drift a bit to the afternoon's festivities. They'd spent a couple of hours at Lou's to celebrate Sarah's first day back at work—and his return to running, as it happened. His shrink had been the one to bring it to everyone's attention, though of course the guests already knew; from the start he'd bragged about it to anyone within earshot. Might as well; whether or not they cared, he wanted to make sure they knew it was important to him.

"We have a far more important beginning to celebrate," Sarah had said. He remembered the light of pride and love in her eyes as she raised her glass of asti to him. "Doctor House, congratulations on a successful clinical trial. No one deserves it more."

They'd all stood and joined in the toast; the applause and even cheers afterward had embarrassed but warmed him, because he knew they were sincere.

He's not quite halfway through now. The end of the paved road is in sight; nothing but dirt from here on out. He pauses for a moment, eyes the washboards and ruts full of water ahead. He hasn't gone into this area before, mainly because fear has kept him out. If he hits an uneven spot the wrong way it could undo everything he's accomplished. It's not that he won't be able to summon help—he's got his phone after all, and he's just minutes from home.

No, it's not about the physical condition of the route. It's about that cold little voice in the back of his brain that whispers you can't do this, you're risking it all for nothing, this is as stupid and pointless as it gets. It's no surprise to him that the voice sounds like John House's. During his childhood and youth he'd been lectured time and again for foolish behavior and reckless acts that had brought disaster in their wake.

Mama take this badge off of me

I can't use it any more

it's getting dark, too dark to see

and I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door

Greg listens to Warren sing, feels the words sink down into his skin, like the fading light and heat all around him. Then he takes a long breath, lets it out, and moves forward.

The going is rough at first. He has to slow his pace, look down more than ahead, watch where he puts his feet. Soon his sneaks are soaked with muddy water and his calves ache with the strain. He thinks again of that first run, the initial dread in every step. He's lived with that fear for a long time now, a presence in everything he does, everything he says, always at the back of his mind. After the surgery, after he'd left the hospital and fought his way through endless, useless rounds of physical therapy, he'd run every test he could think of to find out what had happened. The results had only made things worse. There was no underlying disease, no condition, no genetic predisposition. His clotting factors were normal; he hadn't suffered an injury, not so much as a bruise. Statistically, that meant what happened was the equivalent of a random occurrence, an idea so abhorrent he'd pushed it away every time it popped into his head. But the fear it generated had remained and grown, unacknowledged but there all the same.

And then it happens. Despite his caution, his foot comes down on a rut and sends his ankle sideways. He struggles to stay on his feet, but the kinetic energy of his forward momentum shifts, and he goes down on his right side. The fear swells into panic as he lands with a thud in mud and rainwater and gravel.

Mama put my guns in the ground

I can't shoot them any more

that long black line is comin' down

and I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door

He lies there for a few moments, panting. He's terrified he'll feel the pain of torn muscle or ligament, so in a moment of supreme illogic he squinches his eyes shut and waits. Gradually he senses his hip rests on a rock and is definitely not happy about that fact; his right calf is knotted up because his ankle is flexed . . . but that's all. His quad is okay-soaked with liquid that smells like rotted swamp water, but okay. He dares to open one eye and glance down. No blood, no pain, just mud splatters and wet shorts. After a moment the humor of the situation hits him and he starts to laugh, just a little at first, then full out. He lies back in the mud and stares up at the sky as he shakes for a different reason. When the tears fill his eyes he lets them. Fuck it, no one's here to see anyway.

After a while he gets up, brushes off as much muck as he can, wipes his hands on the last clean area of his shirt, and switches his playlist to classical. He chooses Mendelssohn, the violin concerto in E minor, a brilliant recording by Maxim Vengerov with Kurt Masur and the Leipzig Gewandhaus orchestra, and heads on down the road. He's got a little farther to go before he can turn around and head for home; he'd better get a move on while there's still enough light to see what he's doing.

"Get a move on," he mutters aloud, to savor the words. With a fierce grin he cranks up the volume and plunges ahead.

It's nearly dark and the first stars are out when he finally makes it home. He stops in the driveway, checks his time and heart rate, then heads to the house. The warm yellow light in the windows beckons him forward. Through the last notes of the third movement of the Mendelssohn he hears Roz as she sings above the clatter of dishes and water.

three little birds perch by my doorstep

singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true

saying this is my message to you

Even while he rolls his eyes at her taste in music, he still can't help but smile. He moves forward, his right hip a bit sore but everything else works just fine, and climbs the steps to head into the house.

Roz turns as the screen door opens. She pauses, dish towel in hand as she surveys him. He says nothing, just turns off his iPod. Then he looks up at her, lets his smile widen, and she gets it, she gets it right away, just as he knew she would. Without hesitation she tosses the towel onto the counter and comes to him, envelops him in her embrace. When her mouth finds his he takes her kiss and returns it as his tongue strokes hers, and his hands come up to hold her close.

At last the kiss ends. Her hands come up to stroke the nape of his neck, then rest on his shoulders. "You stink to high heaven," she says, and a laugh trembles in her clear, dark voice.

"Don't care," he says. "Starving man here." He nuzzles her cheek. "Starving," he emphasizes, just in case there's some remote chance she doesn't understand. She pulls back to look at him. Her eyes shine like leaves in dappled sunlight. Oh, she understands all right, and returns his sentiment in full.

"Let's go wreck the sheets," she says, and leads him by the hand to the bedroom.

'Knocking On Heaven's Door,' Warren Zevon

'Violin Concerto in Em, Opus 64,' composer, Felix Mendelssohn

'Three Little Birds', Bob Marley