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He looks up at me. ‘Henry says he finished their daily headcount of runners and volunteers, and there’s someone missing. He wants us to look out for them.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Someone called Dale Parker.’
‘Dale is missing?’ asks Ali.
‘Wait, you know him?’ Pete asks.
‘He’s the photographer I was partnered with for the first two days of the race. Hang on, let me show you.’
I take out my camera, scrolling back until I come to the photograph I took of Dale on the first day of the race. Standing atop one of the dunes, looking out at the elite runners.
Pete frowns. ‘I know that guy. His name’s not Dale Parker, though. That’s Steve Parsons.’ He takes my camera and zooms in on the man’s face. ‘But it can’t be. He’s the runner who went missing at Long & Windy. The Steve Parsons I know is dead.’
49
Adrienne
My heart is in my throat as I approach the body. The man’s head is slumped against his chin, his shoulders hunched. I recognize his baseball cap. It’s Hiroko. For a moment I fear that he might be dead. But when I get close, I realize that he is fast asleep.
I nudge him. This is not the place to rest. He’s completely exposed to the sun and other elements. If there’s another storm, he will be vulnerable.
‘Hiroko, are you OK?’
There’s an indistinguishable moan.
‘Do you have water?’ I search his backpack and try to dribble some from his bottle into his mouth. ‘You can’t sleep here. You have to keep moving.’
‘Let me sleep,’ he says, trying to brush me off. ‘Just one more minute.’
I hesitate. This is his run, his choice. But he doesn’t look good. I glance at my watch and give him sixty seconds exactly. When he doesn’t move, I nudge him again. ‘Hiroko? Are you getting up?’
‘One minute,’ he repeats.
His GPS tag is on the shoulder closest to me, but still I don’t press it. If I do, his race is over. Do I really want to do that to another competitor, when he hasn’t asked me to?
‘Hiroko?’ He doesn’t respond. He’s not going to get up again and run. I make the decision to press the buttons. If he blames me, then I will accept that. I will explain it to the race organizers. I take a deep breath, then turn on his emergency beacon.
Except nothing happens. Unlike Mariam’s, which started flashing red almost instantly, this one remains off.
I can’t leave him here. It’s not safe. No one knows where he is. It might be hours before someone comes looking for him. If his emergency beacon isn’t working, maybe his whole GPS tag is wonky?
I imagine myself crossing the finishing line and finding out that Hiroko has been left out here to die. It’s unconscionable.
At the same time if I stay with him, I’ll lose for certain. I know the rules inside and out, but surely they will understand. In every other race I’ve done, if a runner stops to aid another, they don’t get penalized. Especially in such a remote race. Ultrarunners take care of each other. It’s part of the ethos.
Whether it’s part ofBoones’sethos, I don’t know. Will he grant me that grace? But I realize I don’t care. A man’s life – that’s more important than answers. In this moment it’s more important than any risk to my own life. This is imminent. Hiroko needs helpnow.
I swing my backpack off, digging around in the bottom of it for my knife. Then I slice through the cable ties securing my GPS tag to my backpack. Now I really feel like I’ve lost my mind. But I press the buttons on mine and it flashes. I place it in Hiroko’s pocket.
I’ve done all I can. I need to get to the jebel.
Continuing to run feels like a stupid, irresponsible decision. No one can track me. If I get into trouble, I’ll be on my own with no way to summon help. But this is how I love to run. On my own. With only myself to rely on. I’ve got to see if I am capable.
And I won’t stop running until I find out.
The path to the jebel winds its way slowly through increasingly rocky ground, the boulders growing larger as I approach the sheer-looking cliff face. There’s just a tiny single-track pass that will allow a runner up over the steep sand, a frayed rope dangling down one side to aid struggling climbers.