Qualify for the Boston Marathon.

“The temperature that morning was below zero. Not “feels like” below zero — actual below zero. I remember seeing a runner ahead of me whose beard was coated in icicles, each one clinking softly as he moved. It should have been a warning. But seventeen‑year‑olds don’t believe in warnings. By mile 24, I was no longer running. I was staggering. My father saw me from the sidelines and later told me I looked like I was “walking like a zombie.” He didn’t hesitate — he grabbed me off the course. Minutes later, everything went black. When I woke up, I was in the passenger seat of my dad’s car, parked in front of a hospital. The heat was blasting. My clothes were soaked. My dad’s face was pale.”