With spring in the air and the weather warming up, Sam had returned to his routine of running. Not that he had really stopped during the winter--but it was harder and he hadn't gone nearly as often. But he had running shoes (thanks to Christmas) and his path was clear. Sure, he had a sprained wrist to deal with now, but he could run with it. He could run and forget everything happening around him. He didn't have Steve to push him, but he pushed himself just fine. He had to keep up, had to find a way out, had to just move. The warming weather meant something else too and he wanted to escape--but now they were approaching a year and he hated that thought.

By the time he had circled back towards the village he was covered in sweat and breathing hard. Normally he'd head back to the house, bathe, and then get ready for breakfast. Instead he was distracted by the sound of frustrated cries and something being hit over and over again. Sam looked in the direction, wiping sweat from his brow and debating whether or not to investigate. He sighed and jogged in the direction of the sounds: branches breaking, a woman cursing in a familiar accent.

He passed into a clearing and saw Wanda. She looked like she'd been in a fight, the only thing missing was the tell-tale red mist. It was odd, though at first Sam didn't think much of it. He stood at the edge of the clearing and then winced as she slammed her fist into a thick tree trunk. Even from several feet away he could see the raw red and bleeding wounds on her hands. Without thinking he crossed the distance between them, "Woah! Wanda! What are you doing!" His hand went to her shoulder, firm but reassuring. He didn't want her to think he was trying to attack her -- which in this state he wasn't sure if she'd realize that or not. Obviously she was worked up about something.