The arguments came faster, got fiercer, and lately had involved dodging thrown things, including one that could have maimed him.
For months, Owen Yurley had retreated to his treadmill and run with the fierceness of the argument, his feet making stronger, more linear strides than his weak and meandering counterpoints.
If he did it right, he could dip his head and see droplets of sweat hit the black rubber tread.
The tiny splashes were comforting.
He could smell himself sweat out garlic and disgust.
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