The winner of the city marathon crossed the finish line a little after two hours, to the roar of a crowd that was already thinking about lunch. By the afternoon the crowds had drifted home, and the crews had started stacking the barriers and rolling up the banners. But at seven in the evening, Hana was still out on the course. She was over sixty, and she was the very last runner. She was running for her late husband, who had always told her, "Finish, whatever the time," and she had no intention of stopping now. The streets had been reopened to traffic, and every so often a car slowed beside her while the driver lowered a window to check that she was all right; each time, she raised a hand to say that she was.
An old member of the crew refused to take down the finish tape, however much the others grumbled. Slowly, a few people gathered: cleaners with their brooms, medics with their bags, a handful of spectators who had not gone home. They lined the last hundred meters and held up their phone lights, a thin, trembling corridor of stars. Hana came around the corner, her breath loud, her legs shaking, aware of nothing except the next step and the next, and ran through it, and crossed the line in the dark while about twenty people applauded, a small crowd for so large a victory. "Thank you for waiting," she said.