Gwendy's Magic Feather

1

ON THURSDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1999, Gwendy Peterson wakes up before the sun, dresses in layers for the cold, and heads out for a run.

Once upon a time, she walked with a slight limp thanks to an injury to her right foot, but six months of physical therapy and orthotic inserts in her favorite New Balance running shoes took care of that little problem. Now she runs at least three or four times a week, preferably at dawn as the city is just beginning to open its eyes.

An awful lot has happened in the fifteen years since Gwendy graduated from Brown University and moved away from her hometown of Castle Rock, Maine, but there’s plenty of time to tell that story. For now, let’s tag along as she makes her way crosstown.

After stretching her legs on the concrete steps of her rented townhouse, Gwendy jogs down Ninth Street, her feet slapping a steady rhythm on the salted roadway, until it runs into Pennsylvania Avenue. She hangs a sharp left and cruises past the Navy Memorial and the National Gallery of Art. Even in the heart of winter, the museums are all well illuminated, the gravel and asphalt walkways shoveled clean; our tax dollars hard at work.

Once Gwendy reaches the Mall, she notches it up a gear, feeling the lightness in her feet and the power in her legs. Her ponytail peeks out from underneath her winter cap, rustling against the back of her sweatshirt with every step she takes. She runs along the Reflecting Pool, missing the families of ducks and birds that make it their home during the warm summer months, toward the obelisk shadow of the Washington Monument. She stays on the lighted path, swinging a wide circle around the famous landmark, and heads east toward the Capitol Building. The Smithsonian Museums line both sides of the Mall here and she remembers the first time she visited Washington, D.C.

She was ten that summer, and she and her parents spent three long, sweaty days exploring the city from dawn to dusk. At the end of each day, they collapsed on their hotel beds and ordered room service—an unheard of luxury for the Peterson family—because they were too exhausted to shower and venture out for dinner. On their final morning, her father surprised the family with tickets to one of the city’s pedicab tours. The three of them squeezed into the back of the cramped carriage eating ice cream cones and giggling as their tour guide pedaled them around the Mall.

Never in a million years did Gwendy dream she’d one day live and work in the nation’s capital. If anyone questioned her of that likelihood even eighteen months earlier, her answer would have been a resounding no. Life is funny that way, she thinks, cutting across a gravel pathway in the direction of Ninth Street. Full of surprises—and not all of them good.

Leaving the Mall behind, Gwendy pulls frigid air into her lungs and quickens her stride for the final home stretch. The streets are alive now, bustling with early morning commuters, homeless people emerging from their cardboard boxes, and the rumble and grind of garbage trucks making their rounds. Gwendy spots the multi-colored Christmas lights twinkling from her bay window ahead and takes off in a sprint. Her neighbor across the street lifts a hand and calls out to her, but Gwendy doesn’t see or hear. Her legs flex with fluid grace and strength, but her mind is far away this cold December morning.