1.
Andy repeats the old runner's mantra before he begins: *The first mile is a liar. If you can get beyond that, anything's possible.* It's necessary for the early hour and the effort ahead. He's up daily at 3:40 a.m. By 3:55, he's outside his home in running shorts, protein bar hanging from his mouth, laces tied in a perfect runner's knot, playlist selected, and earbuds in place. He's ready to go when his right foot strikes the street at precisely 4 a.m.
It's early, he knows. But these few precious hours before the world wakes are a sanctuary. Nothing has ruined the day yet. By sunup, other people will be at it with their well-intended complications and conundrums, peeling away the possibilities of the day until evening leaves the only remaining conclusion. But now, in the solitude of his early morning, it's all pure potential.
The pre-dawn streets in Andy's urban residential neighborhood used to be his turf, all smooth black stretches like runways, silent but for his rhythmic footfalls. That changed one morning when a none-too-sober driver whipped around a corner too fast and nearly turned Andy's lanky frame into a hood ornament, like a mangled Mercury.
That sent him seeking safer ground, his runner's mind methodically scanning for alternate routes.
Living near the zoo has its downsides. Finding street parking on summer weekends, for example, is impossible. But it has perks too, like hearing the lions roar during their dinner time and in the wee hours during mating season. Also, the zoo parking lot system: an interconnected chain of lots ringing the 92-acre zoo, filled with cars during business hours. But at 4:00 a.m., Andy thinks of it as his private track.
The lots are paved smooth. Reasonably well lit. No traffic. Unchanging. Predictable. Everything a runner could want.
His only company is the occasional police cruiser or ambulance on break, cooling their heels between calls. When Andy passes them--police in particular--he gives a wave on his first lap, as if to say, "I see you, I'm not a vagrant. Not trying to steal penguins." His wave is polite, but not cowering, which might provoke suspicion. He's there to run, that's all. Not a problem for anyone.
Not anyone, that is, except his nemesis: Zoo Security. It loops through the circuit of lots like a ghost, a stark white SUV with peering headlights. The unseen security guard is always on the watch for intruders. He sometimes stops to pan a lot with a blinding flashlight, a clear signal that Andy's not supposed to be there. On the occasion Andy is seen, Security lets out a warning: BWOOP BWOOP! Two short bursts of the siren.
In short, Zoo Security is the coyote to Andy's roadrunner. When he sees the white security SUV, he darts through the trees to the surrounding sidewalks, where Zoo jurisdiction ends. "Meep meep, motherfucker," Andy says under his breath every time he gets away, smirking.
*Could you just not be an asshole?* Andy wants to ask. Even the cops don't give a fuck that he's there. Can't he just be left alone?
The morning after a full night's rain and windstorm, even the mostly asphalt-surfaced zoo lot's terrain is changed, making the predictable lot an obstacle course. There are massive puddles and tree branches--some fallen, some hanging treacherously low. With the trees so altered, even the light from the street and lot lamps shines through at new and different angles, hiding some parts of Andy's path and revealing others.
There's a short strip that's now particularly dark, and as Andy approaches, he can just make out multiple low-hanging branches he'll need to dart around and duck under to avoid.
On his first pass--THWACK--something hits his crown. A stupid branch he didn't see. As he passes through the loop a second time--THWACK!--it happens again, but harder. He's sure he didn't see a branch, but it really is dark. On his third lap, determined not to be hit again, he scans intently as he approaches.
As he reaches the tree, he sees his own shadow cast by a parking lot light, and above it, the shadow of wings spreading wide, diving like a fighter pilot for Andy's head.
"Pearl Harbor!" he yelps as the crow talons crack down on his head like a punch. THWACK! "We're under attack!" But instead of TORA! TORA! TORA!, the only battle call is the sound of wings sweeping the air.
Andy ducks to avoid another strike when he sees the flash of headlights turning into the lot. The one thing he thought he'd never say: *Thank God, it's the police.* But then he hears the worst possible sound at that moment: BWOOP! BWOOP! The damn Zoo Security SUV, just as the crow plummets for his head again. What kind of conspiracy is this anyway? THWACK!
He runs in blind zigzags, hands over his head, until one foot catches on a fallen branch, one leg hooks the other, and he tumbles, skin scraping against asphalt until he comes to rest.
Dazed, the black canopy of trees still spinning above him, Andy slowly sits up. He retrieves his phone from the liner of his shorts. It still works, but the screen is cracked. Only one earbud is still in place, but he can see the other on the black asphalt and reaches to pick it up. One knee is bloodied, and though he can't see them all, he feels the stings of brush burns. It could be worse.
There are rapid footsteps approaching. His nemesis.
"Go away," he says in a gravelly voice, waving off the crow, the flashlight beam flashing on and off Andy's face, blinding him.
He looks tall, the uniform stark in the glare--khaki shorts and boots, a short-sleeved khaki shirt stretched across broad shoulders.
He crouches, and the flashlight beam dips. Andy prepares to spring up and bolt away.
"You okay?" the guard asks.
His red hair and ruddy cheeks are warm in the cool night air, and Andy can't find his breath.
Roadrunner down.
2.
"'M fine," Andy manages, withholding the torrent of curse words he'd like to use.
The guard scans him for signs of real damage--broken bones?--and, finding none, offers an encouraging smile. "We'd better get you patched up."
Andy rises to his feet to brush off the whole incident and be on his way, but when the bloodied knee nearly buckles under him, he accepts that's not happening. Not immediately.
"Whoa, buddy," the guard says, wrapping an arm around Andy's waist, steadying him. "I got you."
Together they hobble to the security vehicle, the same ghost-white SUV Andy's evaded so many times. The guard opens the back doors and helps Andy slide up into the lowered rear, his legs dangling.
"It's like an ambulance back here," Andy says, spying a gurney and a defibrillator, tapping at the knob of an oxygen tank.
"Don't touch that." The guard swats his hand away. "It's just some basic stuff." He pulls a small blanket and a bag marked with a red cross from their secured spots. "You never know." He turns to Andy and smiles. "Sean. Sean Maguire."
When he wraps the blanket around the battered runner's shoulders like a shawl, Andy glances down to see a green shamrock tattoo on the guard's inner forearm that seems to move as the muscles around it flex. Sean Maguire indeed.
As the guard sorts through his supplies, Andy assesses his damage. A bloody streak runs from his knee down his shin, an abrasion the size of a clothes iron marks one shoulder, and another marks his tricep. He can see another on his side through the opening of his shirt, and there are random scratches on his knees and elbows. Both palms are embedded with dirt and needles.
*Every runner takes a fall eventually*, he reminds himself. This was just his day. The knee would be the worst of it. But he'd run through worse.
He winces at his reflection in the cracked screen of his phone--another abrasion, this one on his already swollen top lip. His mouth was one of his better features, he thought, the arch of the upper and the subtle pout of the lower.
"I look like a cartoon fish," he says, turning his head side to side, puckering his lips to enhance the effect for a photo. When Sean notices the flash, Andy adds, "For Instagram."
"I'd say more of a ruggedly handsome look," Sean replies, with a friendly grin and jutting jaw.
Andy could say something sarcastic, but even that temptation melts under the comforting warmth of the blanket. What do you know, maybe Sean Maguire knows what he's doing.
"Look, thanks, but I can just go home. I only live a few blocks away," Andy offers.
"That's why I see you here all the time," replies Sean. "But I ought to check you out first." He closes his eyes and repeats a hushed mantra. "A B C D E, A B C D E. Airway, Breathing, Circul--"
ABC, Assault and Battery Crow, Andy thinks. Instead, he interrupts, "Is this a liability issue? I'm not going to sue."
"EMT student." Sean grins proudly. "This is your lucky day."
Andy's nearly as dumbfounded as he was to see a bird dive-bombing his head. He and the guard have very different ideas about what constitutes luck.
"This could be like an unofficial practical exam. If you don't mind."
If the guard wasn't half so good-looking, with his burnt orange hair and boyish charm, Andy would put up more of a fight. "Fine. Go ahead."
"Alright, patient," Sean says, pulling a little memo pad from the rear pocket of his shorts he fills out so admirably. "Let's start with the basics. Name?"
"Andy Alvarez."
