2016 – Day 26

Late Sunday afternoon, Molly stepped onto the treadmill and stared at the instructions to get started. It had been six years since she gone to a gym and she felt everyone could read it on her forehead. Or more like on my ass, she thought. She decided against creating a complicated routine and instead went for the "get started" button and began walking.

She had picked the treadmill furthest to the side where there was least chance of anyone working out next to her. Lady Gaga pumped through the speakers and Molly could hear the pounding feet of someone running steadily on another treadmill one row away.

In front of her, a wall of windows faced a four-story office building that advertised space for rent. The building and gym were so close to each other that Molly could see inside the offices closest to her. The two offices directly across from her had large desks with an office chair and a small guest chair, while the offices further to her right displayed a hodge-podge of furniture that seemed to have been assembled out of a yard sale. Hallway lights glowed somewhere further inside the building, but only the sunlight through the windows lit up the offices.

Molly increased her speed and attempted to jog. Within moments, a weight pressed against her chest and she felt unable to take in more than quick, shallow breaths. Jabbing her finger at the controls, she finally hit the button to slow the treadmill back to a walk. Catching her breath, Molly held on to the sides of the treadmill and stared down at the display to check her stats. She had been going for just five minutes.

Groaning, Molly looked back toward the window to distract herself from the discomfort. She noticed then that a light had been turned on in one of the offices across the way. It was one of the rooms with the yard sale furniture, on which three men now sat. Molly's instinct was to turn away or look elsewhere, as if she could be spotted staring at them from her treadmill. But the men never turned to the window; they were engrossed in whatever they were discussing. Molly trudged along, watching them and periodically checking the stats to see how far she had gotten. The men seemed to be talking about something displayed on a computer sitting atop the plastic table between them. "Barry," as Molly had dubbed the heavier, older guy wearing a gray suit, pounded his fist on the table and jabbed a finger toward something on the screen. "Roger," a lanky fellow with shoulder-length blond hair, sat across the table from "Barry" and seemed to shake his head each time "Barry" pounded his fist. The third guy, "Richie," nodded at "Barry" and twirled something in his hand—maybe a pen or pencil?—as if it were a baton. Occasionally "Richie" gestured wildly to make some point, and the other men shook their heads or made broad gestures back at him.

Molly took a peek at the treadmill display and found that she had finally reached 15 minutes. She had wanted to go for at least 20, so she steeled herself for another five minutes of discomfort. As she did, she glanced out the window to check on the odd meeting in progress. The three men were still there, but now one of them lay on the floor beside the table. It was "Richie," and he was covered in blood.