“You could just use the treadmill,” Royal says.

“Not even… remotely the same.” Monique shakes her head, still a little breathless. The skin of her forearms and under her eyes is flushed; the rest of her is pale.

“I think you know that there’s good running and bad running.” His words are careful.

“I know the difference.”

“Do you?”

“Good running is hurting yourself just enough so it’s worth it.” She straightens and plods into the bathroom.

“And bad running…”

“Bad running is hurting yourself as much as you want.”

Royal wants to say something, but she’s already shut the door.