At mile 22 of the city marathon, hours after the winners had finished, I found a woman standing alone with a cardboard sign and a cowbell. The sign said YOU GOT THIS. The runners passing her now were the slow ones. The walkers. The ones in pain. She rang the bell for every single one and pointed at the sign like it had been made for each of them personally. I asked how long she had been standing there. "Since six," she said. Six hours. I asked if she was waiting for someone. "My husband made this sign in '19," she said. "I ran that year. I was slow. He stood right here for six hours so I'd see it at the hard mile." She rang the bell for a limping man twice her age. "He's gone now," she said. "Somebody stood for me. So now I stand." I stayed. I held the sign for an hour so she could sit. A runner pointed at it, and cried, and kept running. I do not know her name. She does not know mine. The sign knows us all. You got this.