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They’ll give her a cape, a crown, hail her as a hero whom no one can blame.

Thirty seconds.

I’m not going to make it. I’m not—

“Run!” Elodie shouts at me. “We’re almost there, Nat! Almost—”

Twenty-seven seconds.

I push my legs harder, faster, trying to look past the trees to the clearing ahead. And that’s when I see them—Jago, Finn, Oliver, and Mason—all of them frantically waving.

“Hurry,” they call, with Mason’s voice rising above all the rest.

Eighteen seconds.

Elodie is nearly there—a few more steps and she’s free.

As for me—the news isn’t nearly as good.

“Run!” Finn screams.

“Hurry!” Jago and Oliver chime in.

While Mason yells, “Dammit, Clarke, get your butt off the bench andrunthat track!”

Twelve seconds.

If my lungs weren’t on fire, if a flaming spear of blazing hot agony wasn’t currently tunneling its way through my insides, I’d be reeling with laughter at Mason’s spot-on imitation of our junior year gym coach—the one we both detested as much as she detested us.

“You think you’re too good to sweat like the rest of us, Clarke?” Mason shouts, continuing to recite the entire litany of soccer field, baseball diamond, volleyball court taunts.

And it must work. Because between that and the sight of Elodie leaping through the glowing doorway, my adrenaline spikes, fueling me through the home stretch.

Oliver extends an arm, shouting encouragements. And with my lungs about to explode, I watch the green arrow shrink, watch the amount of time left on the clock tick dangerously close to the dreaded zero.

The portal is so close, but with time dwindling down, it could go either way.

Six seconds.

Elodie’s face is red, dripping with exhaustion and sweat, and yet she still manages to look annoyingly radiant. “Fucking move, Nat!” she shouts, and to her credit, she truly looks worried.

“You’re almost there!” Oliver shouts.

“So close!” Jago echoes.

“You can’t give up now!” Finn looks frantic.

But it’s Mason who sends me over the edge. “Clarke,” he shouts. “I swear, you run even slower than you drive!”

When I’m down to the very last second,my right foot shoots forward, extending uncomfortably, excruciatingly far, and the second it lands and my toes make contact, I leap.

With no time to spare and everything to lose, I hurl my body through the air—soaring, plummeting, desperately clawing for the finish, only to fall tragically, infinitesimally, short.

That’s it.

I’m done.

My epitaph streaks across the screen in my head. Just a handful of words etched onto a boring gray stone: