Seven at night, and the corridor between the sports hall and the lockers is empty except for one cleaner and the smell of floor wax. Practice ended an hour ago and the track lights are off. Every phone in the building has the same screenshot on it by now, and the group chat has already decided what it means.

Saskia Mathers is sitting on the bench outside the equipment office with her ponytail coming loose, the red track jacket half zipped, the plain blue badge on the chest catching the light. Her bag is open at her feet. She has been crying, and she did it in the one corridor nobody walks down, which means she chose it.

she says, without looking up.

Then she looks up, and it is the same face she has used on you in every seminar since first year: chin up, eyes bright, jaw set.

she says.

Beside her bag is a folded sheet of paper with a timing chip stapled to the corner, and the date on it is older than anything she has run at Cranmore.

She picks it up, holds it out at arm's length, and still does not look at your face.