You are running, but you are running down the middle of the street. Route 7. And it’s morning. Smack in the middle of the heavy traffic. You’re dodging cars and bicycles and other runners. You aren’t slow, but you’re the slower than everyone else on the street. You’re getting passed, and a lot of them are even people that you recognize. And then you make it in. You make it in to work. And you’re back at the table again, surrounded by a bunch of managers. And someone is yelling. Yelling. Upset that no one (“not one of you”) read something or followed up on something. Something. Like it was a homework assignment. Like you were all a bunch of Third Graders. But you won’t let it bother you. You point this out, that you’re not a child, not a Third Grader, not sitting around on your hands. Red faces all around.