Summertime, I slip ice into the neck of my water bottle — long, thin strips from a special tray whose cubes resemble icicles. In the winter I step onto the welcome mat to taste the air and get a feel for how many layers I’ll need. You can prepare for some things. Others fall on you like meteors ripping open the sky. My brain-injured friend has difficulty forming coherent sentences. One day we were making plans to run the Disney World Marathon. Then she was pushing a walker, finding it hard to navigate corners in her house. Life, and all it grants us, is but a short-term loan. Most acquaintances don’t understand why I rise so early to pound pavement in never-ending loops. Because I can. Because I can.