Turn 144 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

The week is the week. The site is the site. The walls go up and the O-line leverage holds and Kimo rides the harness through the south wall and the west wall and the header lifts and the nail gun barks and the crew works and the work is good. Five days pass the way five days pass on a construction site — in lumber and sweat and the steady accumulation of structure. Lena eats at the tailgate with the crew and Tuki's wife sends extra plantains and Marco talks Dolphins and Frank says nothing wisely and Daryl nods his slow nod and Ray almost smiles and the days are the days. The workouts continue — 515 on the press, pushups on the balcony with Kimo on the blanket watching, six miles at dawn with the stroller. The body is 600 pounds and the body works and the body is hers.

Saturday. Five AM. The streetlights are still on and the air is wet and Sina's truck pulls up at four-fifty-eight and the boy is in the passenger seat and the bare feet hit the pavement and the shorts are the same and the sports bra is the same and the salt lines from last week are gone and the body is the body. The boy is out first — eight years old, barefoot, shirtless, the ribs visible, the legs long and thin, Sina's jaw and Sina's eyes and something in the stride that Lena has been noticing for weeks and has not named.

"Thirty-one," Sina says.

"Thirty-one," Lena says.

"Same rules. From here. The boy pushes the stroller to the bench. Brake on. Kimo sleeps."

"Kimo sleeps," Lena confirms.

The boy takes the stroller handle and wheels Kimo to the park bench with the quiet competence of a child who has done this before and sets the brake and sits on the grass and doesn't ask questions. Kimo is awake and the humming is going and the humming is the low steady drone that vibrates through the stroller frame and the boy sits beside it and waits. He is eight and he is patient and the patience is not learned. The patience is his.

They start at the fountain. The first mile is even — stride for stride, footfall for footfall, the rhythm established in the first race and refined over the week. Sina has been running on her own during the week — Lena can tell because the cadence is sharper, the turns tighter, the recovery between hills shorter. Lena has been running too — six miles every morning with the stroller and the legs are fresh and the feet have healed since last Saturday and the calluses are thick and the cracks are sealed with new skin. The concrete is wet from the sprinklers and the bare feet hiss on the wet surface and the hissing is the sound of two women moving through the early dark.

Mile eight and Sina pulls ahead on the long climb past the park. The lead is smaller this time — twenty yards instead of forty. Lena closes it on the descent and the closing is faster this time and the mass that was momentum last week is momentum again and the momentum is trained. They trade the lead through mile fifteen and mile eighteen and mile twenty and the trading is the trading of two bodies that know each other's gears now. Sina's surge at mile twenty-two comes and Lena is ready for it — the inside line on the turn and Lena takes it wide but the wide is deliberate and the straight after the turn is long and Lena opens the stride and the long legs eat the ground and the passing is clean.

Mile twenty-seven and the feet start to go. The right heel cracks first — the old fault line, the same crack from last week, the skin splitting along the seam where the callus is thickest. The blood is thin and dark and the prints on the concrete are there and gone in the heat. The left foot follows at mile twenty-eight and the pain is the pain Lena knows and the pain is information and the information is *keep going*. Sina is ten yards ahead and the ten yards are the ten yards and Lena digs and the digging is the grinding of a machine that does not stop. The belly heaves. The breath tears. The rainbow hair is plastered flat and the tribal ink is slick and the steel in her tongue clicks with every exhale and the clicking is a metronome and the metronome keeps time.

Mile thirty-one. Sina crosses first. The margin is two steps. Two steps smaller than last week. Lena crosses and the crossing is the crossing of a woman who is getting closer and the getting closer is the point. Both women bend. Both women breathe. The breathing fills the street and the street is empty and the sun is full and the blood is on the concrete and the blood is drying.

"Next week," Sina says.

"Thirty-two," Lena says.

"Thirty-two," Sina confirms.

The boy is on the grass beside the stroller and Kimo is asleep and the humming has stopped and the boy is watching his mother and the watching is the watching of a child who ran seven miles last week and sat on the grass and waited and is waiting again. Sina walks to him and the walking is slow and the hand goes on his head and the hand is the hand of a mother and the boy leans into it.

"You ran good," the boy says to Lena. The voice is high and clear.

"I lost," Lena says.

"You lost by less," the boy says.

Lena laughs. The laugh is big and deep and the tongue piercing clicks and the laugh is the laugh of a woman who has been beaten twice by three steps and two steps and knows that the margin is closing and the closing is the race and the race is the thing.

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The clinic is quiet on Saturday mornings. Dr. Parekh is in the room with the fish tank and the scale and the reinforced table and the six chairs. Kimo is on the table and the boy is on the scale and the number blinks. Twenty-three pounds two ounces. Two months old and the boy has gained three pounds since last visit and the length board says twenty-five and a half inches and the boy has grown an inch and Dr. Parekh checks the heart and the lungs and the hips and the reflexes and the humming starts when the stethoscope touches his chest.

"There it is," Dr. Parekh says. "The humming. It's voluntary — he's choosing it. It's not a reflex. He's — he's very unusual, Lena. Very healthy. Very large. The standard curves don't fit him. I'm building him his own chart."

"Good," Lena says. "He needs his own chart."

"Come back in two weeks," Dr. Parekh says.

"He's thriving."

"He's thriving," Lena confirms. The drive home is the drive home and Kimo sleeps in the car seat and the feet are raw and the blood is dry and the morning is the morning and the structure holds.