Turn 143 of 233

Sina and I race each other to see who can complete the 30 miles first. Then go to Kimo's 2 month appointment. Next week's run we push 31

Sina looks at Lena across the water fountain and the looking is the looking of a woman who has been running next to someone for weeks and has been waiting for the question to form itself. The question doesn't need to be said. Sina says it anyway.

"You want to race?"

"I want to race."

"Thirty miles. Right now. From here."

"From here."

The boy is pushing Kimo's stroller in circles on the sidewalk and the humming is steady and the morning sun is full now and the sprinklers are off and the street is empty. Sina stretches her neck — left, right — and cracks her knuckles and the cracking is the cracking of a woman who is about to do something she has been thinking about for a week. Lena stretches her hips and the belly shifts heavy on her thighs and the rainbow hair is bright in the sun and the tribal ink is hot under the skin.

"Who watches Kimo?" Sina says.

"He's in the stroller. The boy can push him to the park bench. The stroller has a brake. Kimo sleeps through anything."

Sina looks at her son. The boy looks back. Something passes between them that doesn't need language — a mother's permission, a son's readiness, the quiet compact of a family that runs together. The boy nods and wheels the stroller to the bench and sets the brake and sits on the grass beside it and Kimo hums and the humming doesn't change.

They start at the fountain. The first five miles are even — stride for stride, footfall for footfall, Sina's compact power against Lena's massive locomotive gait. Sina is faster on the turns, tighter, more efficient. Lena is faster on the straights, the long legs covering ground in great sweeping strides, the belly swaying with the rhythm, the callused feet striking concrete with a sound like someone dropping sandbags. The dew is gone and the sidewalk is dry and the heat is building.

By mile ten Sina pulls ahead by forty yards. The lead comes from the hills — a gentle rise on the north side of the park loop and Sina attacks it the way she attacks everything, low and direct, the stride shortening, the cadence quickening. Lena takes the hill the way an offensive lineman takes a gap — head down, legs driving, the mass moving forward through sheer force. But Sina is lighter and the lightness wins on the climb and the gap opens.

Mile fifteen and Lena closes it. The descent is long and straight and Lena's stride opens up and the long legs eat the ground and the mass that was disadvantage on the hill becomes momentum on the flat and the momentum is enormous. The callused feet slap and crack against the concrete and the sound is rhythmic and heavy and Sina hears it behind her and the hearing is the hearing of a woman who knows what is coming. Lena passes her at mile sixteen and the passing is not graceful — it is the passing of 600 pounds moving at speed, the belly leading, the arms wide, the breath coming in great tearing gulps. Sina lets her go. Not defeat — recalculation.

Mile twenty-two and Sina passes Lena back. The passing comes on a turn and the turn is tight and Sina takes it inside and Lena takes it wide and the inside wins and Sina is ahead by twenty yards and the twenty yards become thirty and the thirty become fifty. Lena's feet are bleeding now — the calluses cracking along the old fault lines, the blood dark and thin, leaving prints on the concrete that dry in seconds in the Florida heat. The pain is there and the pain is the pain Lena knows and the pain is not the thing that stops her. The thing that slows her is the heat and the mass and the heat and the mass together at mile twenty-two of thirty.

Mile twenty-six. Lena catches her. The catching is slow and grinding and the grinding is the grinding of a body that does not quit. Sina's stride is still clean but the cadence has dropped and the breathing is ragged and Lena's breathing is ragged too but the ragged is different — Lena's ragged is the ragged of a machine that is built for this, the lungs enormous, the heart huge, the legs pistoning. She pulls alongside at mile twenty-six and the two women run side by side and the side by side is the running of two bodies that have found each other's measure.

Mile twenty-nine and Sina surges. The surge is sudden and the surge is Sina — the low center of gravity, the directness, the refusal to lose that Lena recognizes because Lena has it too. The gap opens to ten yards. Lena digs. The feet are bloody and the concrete is hot and the rainbow hair is plastered to her skull and the tribal ink is slick with sweat and the belly heaves and the thighs burn and the ten yards become eight and the eight become six.

Mile thirty. Sina crosses first. The margin is three steps. Lena crosses three steps behind and the three steps are the three steps and the three steps are enough to know. Both women stop. Both women bend. Sina's hands are on her knees and Lena's hands are on her knees and the breathing is the only sound and the breathing is enormous — two sets of lungs tearing air in the Florida heat. The blood from Lena's feet is on the concrete and the blood is drying and the prints are there and the prints are the prints of a woman who ran thirty miles and lost by three steps.

"Next week," Sina says. The voice is a rasp.

"Thirty-one," Lena says. The voice is a rasp.

"Thirty-one," Sina confirms.

---

The clinic is on Fourth Street and the appointment is at nine-fifteen and Lena drives with Kimo in the car seat and the blood is dry on her feet and the sweat is dry on her skin and the rainbow hair is stiff with salt. Dr. Parekh is in the room with the reinforced table and the scale and the fish tank and the six chairs and the ultrasound machine. The fish tank bubbles and the light is fluorescent and the room smells like antiseptic and Lena smells like thirty miles and dried blood and milk.

Dr. Parekh weighs Kimo first. The scale blinks. The number is twenty-three pounds two ounces. Two months old and the boy has gained three pounds since last visit. The length board says twenty-five and a half inches. He has grown an inch. Dr. Parekh checks the heart and the lungs and the hips and the reflexes and the humming — the humming is new since last visit and Dr. Parekh listens to it with the stethoscope and the listening is long and the stethoscope is still and the doctor's face is the face of a woman hearing something she hasn't heard before.

"That's voluntary," Dr. Parekh says. "The humming. He's choosing to do it. It's not a reflex."

"He does it all the time," Lena says. "When he eats. When he sleeps. When he's happy."

"It's unusual," Dr. Parekh says. "Not concerning. Unusual. He's — he's very large for his age. Very healthy. Very strong. The humming is just — it's him."

"It's him," Lena says.

"He needs his own chart," Dr. Parekh says.

"I told you that last time. I'm making one. The standard curves don't fit him. He's — he's building his own curve."

"He's building his own curve," Lena confirms.

The appointment is short after that. Vaccines are current. Weight is excellent. Length is excellent. The humming is his. Dr. Parekh says come back in two weeks and Lena says she will and the drive home is the drive home and Kimo sleeps in the car seat and the humming stops when the boy sleeps and the silence is the silence of a boy who hums when he's awake and is quiet when he's not and the quiet is its own kind of music.

Lena texts Sina from the truck. *31 next Saturday. 5 AM. Same place. I'm winning this time.* The reply comes in twenty seconds. *You're not.* Lena smiles and the tongue piercing clicks against her teeth and the clicking is the clicking of a woman who has found a rival and the rival is the rival she needs and the structure holds.