The starter gun shatters the silence, releasing the runners from their blocks. Track season starts in a couple weeks, but no one has told Coach Lindt about winter. He’s convinced that the only way to get us into shape is to practice— even when my breath freezes right in front of me. This is Opportunity, Alabama. Sane people don’t leave their homes when it’s white and frosty outside. We stock up on canned food, drink hot chocolate until we succumb to sugar comas, and pray to be saved from the cold. Still, Coach Lindt’s start-of-season training beats Principal Trenton’s long and arduous start-of-semester speech—virtue, hard work, and the proper behavior of young ladies and gentlemen. After almost four years at Opportunity High, I can recite her words from memory, which is exactly what I did for Matt at breakfast this morning—responsibility, opportunity (“no pun intended”), and her favorite, our school motto: We Shape the Future. It sounds glorious, but with months left until graduation, I have no clue what the future looks like. If Opportunity shaped me, I didn’t notice. Running, I know. This track, I know. One step after another after another. It doesn’t matter what comes next as long as I keep moving forward. My foot slips, and I stumble. From his position on the field, Coach curses. “Claire, attention! One misstep’s the difference between success and failure.”

Straightening, I refocus. A familiar laugh colors the still morning. “Did you freeze up over holiday break, Sarge? A snail could catch up with you floundering like that.” On the straightaway of the track, Chris falls into step with me. I suck in a breath before I answer him. “Oh, shut up.” My best friend only laughs louder. The even rhythm of his footsteps and his breathing challenge me to find my pace. His presence steadies me like it always does. At six-foot-five and with sun-touched hair and blue eyes, Chris is not just our best runner but also Opportunity’s poster-boy athlete. On uniform days, the freshman girls fawn over him. With Chris by my side, my stride shortens. The other two runners on our varsity team are far behind us, on the other side of the field. Chris and I move in perfect synchrony, and the very air parts before us. Nothing can touch us. Not snow. Not even time.