"I'm going to be okay, right?"
I don't know how many times I've asked him this.
"Everything is going to be fine," he says. He always says the same thing. And every time it sounds like a different answer.
"I won't be the last person in the race," I say confidently, as if I care. I just want to finish.
"I'm not talking about the race," he says.
Different answer, once again.
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