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He headed straight for the back, where the glass-fronted coolers hummed. Behind the condensation-beaded doors sat the rows of liquid neon. He didn’t want water; he wanted science. He wanted electrolytes.

He stumbled into the fluorescent sanctuary of a corner bodega, the bell above the door chiming like a victory trumpet. The air conditioning hit him in a frigid wave, pulling the salt from his skin.

At the counter, he traded a crumpled five-dollar bill for the bottle. He didn't even make it back to the sidewalk before twisting the cap. The seal cracked with a satisfying pop, and the first cold, purple gulp hit his throat. It wasn't just a drink; it was a hard reset for his entire system.

The afternoon sun was a physical weight on Leo’s shoulders, turning the suburban asphalt into a shimmering, heat-baked haze. His tongue felt like a piece of dry felt, and his water bottle had been an empty plastic shell since the fourth mile of his run.

Leo stepped back out into the heat, the bottle sweating in his hand, feeling like he could run another ten miles—or at least walk the rest of the way home.