“I remember I texted you from my mom’s phone after the shooting asking if you wanted to run. You said yes and we met at goodson. That day you were one of the first people I told about everything, all you did was listen but it made me feel better. Thank you for being there.” I read, absorbing every word from the scratchy handwriting. That snowy run, three years ago, shaped my heart. It was mid-december when Eliza and I bundled ourselves up and hit the trail for a six miler. I can still see the shape of the wind on the trees and hear the distant sound muffle in the snow. I didn’t say much as her broken voice whispered, struggling to relive the horror. She was in the library, she saw Karl with a gun, she sprinted out the back door, and she stepped
