T11

Feet line up on starting blocks. Not two, but four. His right arm, her left, tied together at the wrist.

They can both hear the roar of the crowd, but only he can see the immensity of it. 

Silence descends. They both wait for the sound of the starting gun.

Bang.

And away they run. Him toward the finish line, but her, only into darkness. She sprints blindly, although her body knows the distance, how many strides, how much sweat, how much agony. She can feel him at her side. His every step in synch with her own. His breath. His heartbeat. She can hear the other runners and their guides, she can hear how close they are behind her. She can feel her speed, the rush of air against her face.  It is an image of extraordinary beauty; of cooperation, of trust, of love. Human solidarity. Legs moving in unison, holding hands, they lead one another to victory.

She can't see the journalists, the photographers, her opponents collapsed in defeat. Nor can she see the flag of her country in its majestic ascent. But she can hear the cacophonous cheer of the crowd suddenly hushed by the first glorious chords of the national anthem. 

She can't see her gold medal. 

But she can feel its solid weight around her neck.