It was going to be a scorcher. Google said 86, humidity 88, and the sun wouldn’t be up for another half hour. Twenty-five to six. No time like the present: He dug his lucky running shirt from the bottom dresser drawer, the shirt he’d worn when he got his second-place medal (for his age group) in the municipal 10K and his personal best for that distance, nearly fifteen seconds under a seven minute a mile pace. That was more than thirty years ago. Whew! Now he did just two miles on alternate days and he couldn’t quite keep a ten minute pace. How could this have happened? Age. Plus that heart thing three years ago. Two stents. Doc said he could keep running, but he didn’t want to push it. For a year he didn’t bother with a watch. Then last year he thought maybe he could do a mile in nine. Couldn’t.

Mira was still asleep. He’d leave her a note. She deserved some rest after last night. Whoo-ee! Like old times. Maybe that’s what had him stoked this morning. As he was lacing his shoes, Mira strolled sleepily into the living room. “There you are.” Her voice soft but bright. “Two miles today?” He nodded and smiled. “If I have it in me.” “You do!” she told him, her hand going to his groin. “Love you,” she said, giving him a squeeze. “You’re going to knock’em dead.”

“Love you,” he answered, and he was out the door.

Steamy, but he’d run in much worse. He clicked reset on his timer and decided to carry it in his hand. Lately he’d been wearing it about his neck, but it felt lighter in his hand. He looped the lanyard around his wrist. About to set off down the block, he looked back for traffic—unlikely in this quiet, out-of-the way neighborhood at this (or really any) time of day—and he saw a jogger coming toward him, a young woman, maybe forty yards away, pretty, light charcoal shorts and top, ponytail swaying.

For a moment he thought maybe he’d wait for her, let her pass, but then he changed his mind, thinking she might think it rude if he, what? observed her, and he set off, his pace under control but far from sedate. That she caught up to him almost immediately surprised him. “Good morning,” she said, barely glancing back as she strode past.

“Morning,” he replied, trying to understand how she could have made up those forty yards so quickly. Could he be that slow? She must have sprinted. He kept his pace, maybe just a wee bit faster, noting that his gait was a rapid as hers, but still she was pulling away from him with each stride, and her strides were graceful, effortless. He knew he couldn’t keep up. Foolish to try. But maybe ... just maybe...