Blake rounded the final bend and glanced backward, noticing Eugene was gaining on him.
“Come on, Blake.” shouted a man in the crowd.
As the voice called out he slowed.
“What are you doing?” cried Eugene, dodging left.
Blake sat right down in the middle of the track and the other runners passed by, one by one. When the race had finished, a shadowy figure wandered over and offered Blake a hand.
“There’s always next year, I suppose,” said his father.
“Yes sir,” replied Blake as frozen eyes blazed two holes in the concrete beneath him. “I suppose there is.”
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