Just in Case

Left, right. Left, right. Left, right. The rhythm of my footfalls on the path is a steady pulse as I jog. This is my time to be present, to reflect on the day to come, to enjoy an almost meditative break from the craziness of life and schedules and people. My breath is deep and calm as I think about the things I need to get done before lunch and remind myself to pick up a gratitude journal later.

I pop out of my thoughts for a moment and scan the area quickly. I shouldn't be letting myself get so distracted. Of course, Jen keeps saying I shouldn't be running at all, given the givens. I tried to give it up, but not having that time to myself to really focus on my needs and life at the start of my day made me scattered and left me feeling uninspired. Besides, I like junk food just a little too much to stop getting a daily workout, attacks or no. There's just nothing about a gym or some sweaty yoga studio that compares with getting out in nature and putting one foot in front of the other.

Speaking of junk food, I need to put together the cupcakes I promised Jen I'd make for her birthday shindig. We're heading to Max's for the Naughty Boys Revue on Saturday, and nothing goes better with cheap drinks and debauchery than double chocolate cheesecake-filled cupcakes. I also need to get my green top back from …

This time, I realize what is dragging me out of my thoughts: a noise off to my side, like a snapping branch, and it is entirely out of place. I stop and look around, trying to figure out what it is that made the sound. Then, behind me, I hear the tap, tap, tap of hard shoes on the asphalt of the path. As I turn, I slide my hand into my jacket pocket and grab my pepper spray. It feels paranoid and silly, especially if no one is there, but it would be downright stupid to not be ready in case something did happen.

The shoes I heard are on a 6', bulky frame, and I'm immediately caught between feeling sillier and feeling vindicated, because there was someone there, after all. It just happened to be someone I know.

“You scared the snot out of me!” I laugh as he closes the space between us.

“Hey. Megan? Long time no see.” He flashes a movie star grin that is even more gleaming because of his tan, and I remember parts of the long spiel Jen gave me when she tried to set us up last year. Apparently, in addition to the great job, great car, and great body she mentioned, Chad also likes to head out to parks and run up behind people. I smile in return, but I don't let go of the can in my pocket. It seems silly. He's no threat to me; I know him. The canister is just something to fidget with, that's all.

“Yeah, it's been, what? Nearly a year. I didn't realize you run.”

“I don't, really,” he said. “I had business nearby and decided to have a little stroll in the park.”

A little stroll? Who talks like that but doesn't live in a nursing home?

“Anyway,” he said, “I was surprised to see you here. There aren't a lot of women using the parks or trails right now, with those attacks in the news.”

My hand tightens on the can. That's a weird thing to bring up in casual conversation. Then again, there haven't been too many newscasts lately without coverage of the problem. I tell myself to relax.

“Yeah, well. I don't do so well without a good run and I hate treadmills.”

“They're not so bad.”

My eyebrows raise. “They were invented as instruments of torture. Do you realize that? Actual instruments of torture.”

He chuckles. I think I hear a rustle off to the side again. I start to turn to see what it is.

“So, have you tried that new yogurt place over on 5^th?”

My attention snaps back to him. “No. I'm lactose intolerant.”

“I thought that meant you could still have yogurt and cheese?”

“In theory, I can. You just don't want to be downwind for a few hours afterward.”

He frowns, eyebrows dipping a bit. I force a little chuckle into the space where my attempt at humor fell. My fingers trace the top of the canister, fidgeting even more in my nervousness.

He wipes the expression off his face, seeming to paint on a new smile like it's a mission. “So,” he says, “you must live near here?”

“Yeah. It's not that far, maybe half a mile?”

“You're going to walk half a mile home? That's too far.”

“You're kidding, right?” I chuckle. “I come here every morning to run three miles. Walking home is nothing.”

“I guess. You should at least let me walk you home. You owe me that much.”

“Huh?”

“'Cause I'll worry about you if you don't.”

“Oh. Sure. I guess.”

Here, I've been thinking about the recent attacks and worrying like everything he says could be a red flag, and he's just trying to be a nice guy. I laugh at myself inwardly. I guess the headlines have seeped into my mind more than I thought. I let go of the canister and pull my hands out of my pockets so I can straighten my headband before my bangs get any more out of control.

It's then that I hear two tiny taps on the asphalt, much closer than they should have been. I'm pulled off my feet as the guy behind me grabs me around my arms. It happens so fast, he doesn't even feel like a person. He's just weight and movement, and I may as well be up against a wall. I try to kick him, but Chad is there grabbing my legs and pinning them in place under one arm. He uses his free hand to pat both my jacket pockets and to pull out the canister.

“Ha. What did I tell you? Never hit them when they have their hands in their pockets.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I can hear the other guy's eyeroll in his voice. “Whatever.” He shifts to holding me with one arm, and I think for a blessed second I can break free. Then his other hand slaps a cloth over my mouth and nose. The world reeks of bleach and rubbing alcohol as I start to black out.

I should have sprayed Chad when I had the chance.