My alarm wakes me up at five-thirty. Like a robot, I go through my normal routine.
I put on my workout clothes and guzzle a glass of water. I meditate for fifteen minutes on my balcony before heading to my workout room. I spend ten minutes stretching, before forty-five minutes on the bike instead of the treadmill, the only change to my routine due to my f****d up ankle, and thirty minutes lifting weights.
I grab a second glass of water.
I shower.
I get dressed.
I make a cup of coffee and a protein smoothie.
Then I head out the door, using one crutch as I hobble along.
When I park at my office, I take a deep breath. My routine is so ingrained into my life that I didn’t even stop to think about Millie.
Millie—my heart lurches in my chest, begging me to turn the car around and
