Turn 141 of 233

Take Kimo to the site Monday morning and show the crew the new look. Call Sina as well

Monday morning the site is hot before the sun is fully up and the crew is stretching on the concrete pad and Lena walks through the gate and the gate is the same gate and the site is the same site but the woman walking through it is not the same woman who walked out on Friday. The tribal ink is black from ankle to neck and the rainbow hair is red and orange and yellow and green and blue and purple in the early light and the steel barbell in her tongue clicks against her teeth when she talks and Kimo is in the harness against her chest and the boy is humming and the boy doesn't care about any of it.

Marco sees her first. The nail gun lowers and the mouth opens and the mouth stays open for three full seconds before anything comes out.

"What the — is that your hair?"

"Rainbow," Lena says. The tongue piercing makes it thick and the thickness is new and the newness is the thing the crew will get used to in a week.

Frank turns from the saw and the safety glasses come down and the eyes move from the hair to the tongue to the baby to the ink and the moving is the moving of a man cataloging everything and deciding what to say first. He says nothing. Frank is wise.

Daryl looks up from the lumber stack and the look is long and deliberate and the deliberateness is Daryl's way of processing and the processing takes time.

"Did you get your tongue pierced."

Not a question. A confirmation.

"Steel barbell," Lena says. "Saturday. Jess did it."

"Jess," Daryl says. "The tattoo girl."

"The tattoo artist."

Daryl nods. The nod is the Daryl nod — slow, comprehensive, the nod of a man who has decided that the world is what it is and his job is to frame walls in it. He goes back to the lumber. Ray doesn't look up from the plans but the corner of his mouth moves and the movement is the Ray smile and the Ray smile is rare and the Ray smile is enough.

Walt comes out of the trailer and the clipboard is under his arm and the coffee is in his hand and he stops on the steps and the coffee stops halfway to his mouth. The looking is long. The looking takes in the rainbow hair and the tongue piercing and the baby and the 600-pound naked body that is his project manager and the looking is the looking of a man who has seen a lot of things on construction sites in thirty years and has not seen this.

"New look," Walt says.

"New look," Lena confirms.

"It's —" Walt pauses. The pause is Walt processing. Walt processes the way he processes everything — carefully, without judgment, with an eye toward whether the thing affects the work.

"It's bright."

"It's bright," Lena agrees.

"Does it affect the work?"

"No."

"Then it's your hair," Walt says. The coffee goes to his mouth and the clipboard goes under his arm and Walt walks to the trailer and the walking is the walking of a man who has made his assessment and the assessment is done.

Tuki brings extra food at lunch — rice and chicken and fried plantains and the portions are large and Tuki's wife has started making the large portions on purpose because Tuki told her about the baby and the wife who makes too much food is now making food for two. Tuki sets the container on the concrete pad and looks at the hair and the tongue and the baby and the looking is warm.

"My wife says congratulations," Tuki says. "She wants to meet him."

"She can," Lena says. "Anytime."

Lena sits on the tailgate at lunch and eats the rice and chicken and plantains with one hand and Kimo is on her lap and the boy is watching the chewing and the humming is steady and the rainbow hair is bright in the Florida sun and the tongue piercing clicks when she swallows and the crew eats around her and the eating is the eating of a crew that has a mascot and the mascot is twenty pounds and humming and the mascot doesn't care about rainbows.

On the drive home Lena calls Sina. The phone connects and the voice is the voice she knows — low, direct, the voice of a woman who runs thirty miles barefoot and doesn't waste words.

"Sina."

"Lena."

"Saturday. Five AM. My place. Thirty miles. Same clothes."

"Same clothes," Sina confirms. "I wore them all week. My kids asked why I don't change."

"What'd you tell them?"

"That it's more comfortable this way. That the air is better when you don't cover everything."

The line is quiet for a moment. The quiet is the quiet of two women who understand the same thing from different directions.

"Also," Sina says. "My son wants to know if he can come watch you run."

"He can come. He can run with us if he wants. How old is he?"

"Eight now. He's fast."

"Then he can run."

"Saturday," Sina says. The line goes dead. Sina doesn't say goodbye either. Lena is starting to think that the people who don't say goodbye are the people she belongs with.

The highway opens and the evening is warm and Kimo sleeps in the car seat and the rainbow hair is bright in the rearview mirror and the tongue piercing clicks against her teeth and the clicking is new and the newness is good and the structure holds.