Ezra stepped back and brushed the dirt from his hands. Proud of his handiwork. He inspected it carefully one final time, doing his best to ignore the fact that the construct he had just built held an eerie resemblance to a grave site.

Once he was satisfied with the quality, he looked at the sun again, calculating how much time he had left. He was really cutting it close, but he felt there was still a chance. He gathered his weapon, ammo, and water and pushed toward his destination, his expression one of grim determination.

He fell into a rhythm once more, finding the balance between speed and endurance. If he pushed too hard, he would burn out and kill his chances of making it back. If he set too slow a pace, he would be caught in the open after sundown. This would leave him with the impossible choice of facing the long dark or continuing on after nightfall, which would dramatically increase his chances of injury or death.

There was also the risk of becoming lost, which could potentially be worse. Because even if he did manage to survive the night, not knowing where to go or where the next source of water might be, would most likely result in a slower, more frustrating and painful end than being attacked.

Any of those possibilities could result in his demise. The cost of failure was higher than ever and every time he wanted to give in and collapse, he held onto the images of Vincent left alone to die in a shoddy unmarked grave. He thought of his family waiting on him, counting on him. He thought of the gold. The vast amounts of unclaimed wealth just waiting to be seized.

He thought about what it would mean for his life and his family's future. Everything hinged on this moment. Every action he had taken in his life led here. All the sacrifice, all the risks, and the tireless work would be determined by his ability to make it back in time.

There was no way he could stop now. He'd invested everything into the miniscule chance of discovering an untapped goldmine. They had done the impossible when they inadvertently stumbled upon the mine. All he had to do now was reach out and claim it. It was so close, yet so far away.

He was beginning to tire, and he could sense his body losing rhythm. The well-oiled machine became a staggering, stumbling, uncoordinated thing on the verge of collapse. Like a ship whose sail had suddenly lost its wind, Ezra slowed to a crawl.

His thoughts became jumbled, his goal distant, and his motivation seemed too weak now to sustain him. Sweat dribbled down his face and poured from the rest of his body. There was a burning in his chest and his entire body still ached from the attack and nearly fatal fall.

All that pain seemed amplified now, and he felt hope escape him entirely as if it had been pushed from his mouth during the act of exhalation. Whatever had sustained him until this moment had suddenly evaporated.

All that remained in his mind was his pain. His body had endured far too much, and it was finally catching up with him. His muscles were stiff and rigid. He felt like a dead man walking, whose blood had suddenly congealed.

The aches, pains, and soreness hit him all at once; like a tidal wave crashing over him. He struggled to remain standing. Hungrily gasping for breath. He felt a sudden surge of vertigo pass through his body, he stumbled, attempting to maintain his balance. He reached for a nearby tree trunk, leaning on it for support as he waited for the world around him to stop spinning.

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He wanted nothing more than to collapse on the ground and remain there indefinitely, but he knew he couldn't give up. Somehow, he had to find the will to keep going. As much as he wanted to sit, he forced himself to remain standing.

He stood up as straight as he could and focused on pulling air into his lungs. Drawing deep breaths and exhaling completely before filling his lungs again. After a time, the dizziness began to subside, and he felt himself slowly regaining equilibrium.

He took a swig of water and continued to rest. He found that his sense of hope was returning slowly but surely as he recovered. He drank more water to restore what he'd lost from extreme exertion. Then he mentally prepared himself for the long road ahead.

He ran for what felt like days, though in reality it had been hours. Still, he was beginning to feel its effects and the waning sun was a constant reminder that he didn't have the luxury of slowing down to rest. He had to keep going, but he soon found himself losing hope once again.

Such an impossible goal was all well and good as long as it was just an abstract concept, but once the ideal collided with the cold shock of reality, the sheer force would crush all but the rare few who possessed the herculean inner strength to endure such a challenge.

It was too much, too far. He was ready to give in. But by some miracle, he pushed himself forward until he lost his footing and came crashing down. The earth was unforgiving, punishing him with sharp rocks and unyielding clay.

He lay in a heap; bruised, broken and exhausted. He'd given all he had to give and now, he was empty.

"Maybe I'll pass out." he thought, his troubles seeming distant. "Maybe darkness will fall, and I'll be eaten."

These thoughts passed through his mind without passion or worry as if he were the distant observer of some predicament not his own. In the back of his mind, he knew these thoughts should horrify him, but he was too tired to care.

His mind drifted back to what had led him here.

"It's not about me," he said firmly to himself. "It doesn't matter how much it hurts. I have to keep going. It's just pain, it's not going to kill me."

These thoughts sparked a memory in him like a flint striking steel and lighting a fire. He suddenly recalled a story he had once heard. According to legend, a messenger ran some twenty-six miles from the battle of Marathon, all the way to Athens, to deliver the news of victory and died instantly upon delivering his message.

Ezra stood, a strange fire building in his belly. It surged, spreading through his veins.

"I'm not giving up here." If he can do it, so can I."

He drew water from his canteen and wiped his face. Then set his jaw, his expression one of steely-eyed determination.

He began running once more and watched as the sun inched ever closer to its cradle in the west. He took it as a personal challenge. It wasn't going to beat him. He was going to win.

He thought again of Vincent dying alone in the wilderness. Then he heard his voice as if Vincent were standing right next to him.

"You're the only hope I have left Ezra."

This spurred him on, he felt himself falling into the perfect rhythm again and the realization invigorated him.

He thought of his family, anxiously awaiting his return. He heard Elizabeth's voice, clear as a bell.

"You can do it Ezra. We believe in you."

He imagined his family gathered around a wagon. They stared back at him with hopeful eyes, wondering whether or not he'd found what he'd set out for so long ago. He held a stone-faced expression giving nothing away. Then he opened the back of the wagon and gold spilled out in a massive heap in front of them. Elizabeth cried out in delight and the children stared in wonder. Shocked by the sheer amount of wealth before them.

A smile appeared on his face. As he pressed on, it was slowly replaced by an even more pronounced look of determination and his weariness was replaced by a renewed sense of purpose.

"I'm a marathon man," he said to himself. Gritting his teeth.

"I'll run all the way back without stopping. I'll make it in time. Even if it kills me."