This morning, I wake up the same way I often do—prying myself from the soft fingers of a dream. It is still grey outside. My clock yawns 5:41. My first thought is: “7 miles.” Fridays are always “long run days,” even if 7 miles is barely enough to qualify as such. I linger in bed longer than normal. A. and Lulu are already cavorting through our small kitchen and though I typically like to take Lulu on her first walk of the day, I choose to let A. do the honors today. I wonder what it must be like to wake up without so much as a feather resting on your chest. The anvil locked over mine has been there so long, I wouldn’t be surprised to find rust between my ribs. Over breakfast, I disguise my dread with light chit-chat, by crowing over a decided victory at the day’s Wordle, tugging primly on the delicate lip of the teacup my mother-in-law gave me for Christmas last year. These small rituals comprise the four corners of an attack, an aggressive though unviolent campaign to prevent the s...