Chapter 4: The Final Lap

For two weeks, the Forger family practiced in the small backyard of their Berlint home. Loid had measured out a precisely thirty-meter course, complete with cones and a stopwatch. Anya’s telepathy had proven both a blessing and a curse — she could anticipate their missteps, but the cacophony of her parents’ coordinated thoughts often ended in tangled legs and muffled laughter. Yor, true to form, had a natural rhythm that made her an ideal partner — once she remembered not to accidentally accelerate into a sprint that would dislocate her son’s shoulder. Loid, for his part, learned to surrender control. The three-legged race, he realized, was not about precision but about trust. Letting go of his spy instincts and simply moving with his daughter was the hardest mission he’d ever faced. On the evening of the school’s family sports festival, the field was a sea of proud parents and restless children. Floodlights cast a warm glow over the chalked track, and the crisp air buzzed with anticipation. Anya, in her gym uniform and a bright red ribbon, tugged at Loid’s and Yor’s hands. “We practiced,” she said, her voice steady. “We’re going to win.” The starter’s pistol cracked. The Forgers launched forward in perfect sync — left, right, left, right. Anya’s telepathy fed her a constant stream of encouragement from her parents: from Loid, a calm mantra of step-and-bound; from Yor, a fierce I won’t let her fall. They overtook the Biltons, dodged the Murphys, and crossed the finish line first — ankles still tied, lungs burning, hearts pounding as one. Anya let out a scream of pure joy as the teacher unfastened the strap. “We did it! We really did it!” she shouted, spinning around until she fell into her father’s arms. Loid caught her, his face breaking into a rare, unguarded smile. Yor knelt beside them, brushing grass from Anya’s hair. “You were amazing, Anya,” she said softly. That night, from the kitchen window, Bond barked his approval as the three Forgers sat at the table, medals gleaming around their necks. Anya had drawn a crayon trophy on the back of a homework sheet and taped it to the fridge — next to a blurry photo of the winning moment. Loid poured three glasses of juice and raised his. “To the Forger family,” he said. Yor and Anya clinked theirs against his, and for a moment, the spy, the assassin, and the telepath were just a mother, a father, and a daughter who had won a race together. As Anya’s mind drifted toward sleep that night, she heard one final thought, warm and certain: This is real. And it belongs to us.