Cover art by noahdea.art. Thanks to my husband for some helpful thoughts.
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. 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."
"Age?"
"Thirty. Five. But I moisturize."
“Right on.” Sean’s head bobs as he nods and jots the number in his pad and then gestures to himself. “Twenty-nine. Occupation?"
"English teacher." Sean winces.
“Problem?” Andy asks.
“Sorry. ADHD.” Sean taps his pencil against his temple. “Not my best subject. Any allergies?"
"Crows and asphalt.” He watches Sean take notes. “That’s irony."
“Marital status?”
“Unmarried.”
“Seeing anyone?” Sean asks, a blond eyebrow raised.
“What kind of — give me that.” Andy reaches for the notebook, but Sean twists to hold it out of his grasp.
Andy yields. “Very single. Don’t write that down.”
And staying that way, he might add, thinking of relationships that spoiled faster than milk.
Sean grins and returns to scribbling notes. "Follow my finger with your eyes only." He moves his finger slowly, then stops to take more notes, which he describes as he prints. "Chest-nut eyes with am-ber flecks.” He looks up at Andy. “Noted for medical observation purposes."
“Brown,” Andy says. “And that’s not medical.” Sean’s eyes are a soft, mossy green, he noticed earlier.
“Now: can you name the president?"
"You're going to need a blood pressure cuff if I get started."
"We're going to say the patient is men-tal-ly a-lert." Sean’s tongue catches between his teeth as he writes in tiny, cramped print.
That prompts Sean to take Andy’s pulse. “My resting heart rate's pretty low from running. Just FYI.”
“Humble brag,” Sean notes, his fingers on the runner’s wrist. “I like it.”
Being caught like that gives an unexpected surge to his dick.
Sean checks Andy’s pupils with a penlight and probes Andy's scalp and then his spine, sliding his plate-sized hands through the arm openings of Andy’s sleeveless shirt, making the runner’s shorts contort. Holding hands for the grip test, he asks, "Any pain? Any numbness or tingling?"
Only when you smile, Andy wants to say, but shakes his head.
When his exam concludes, Sean turns to Andy’s abrasions. He cleans each out with stinging antiseptic before covering them with bandages. He extracts the tree needles and bits of gravel out of Andy’s palm with tweezers, the tip of his tongue again flirting between his lips in concentration.
“You’re good at this,” Andy says, earning a glance and a flash of a smile from the otherwise focused guard.
“Thanks. We’re just about done here.”
Seeing the inevitable end approaching, Andy shifts his shoulders and legs, readying himself to limp home. “I know I need to stay awake in case of concussion.”
“That’s kind of a myth, to be honest,” Sean replies. “But I ought to keep an eye on you for a little bit. Just in case.”
Just in case? Andy thinks. He’s already recovered enough to see what an adorable boy-man the security guard is. And how good he makes even his dumb security getup look. In a different scenario, he wouldn’t mind having something more substantial than Sean’s eye on him.
“Don’t you have something you should be doing, Sean Maguire?”
“This is the job, driving around, looking for trouble.”
He reaches out and gently plucks a tiny branch from Andy’s usually silky black hair, grinning.
Well, if he’s going to insist.
“Here?” Andy asks.
"Unless you have a better idea," Sean answers with a smile that gives Andy at least a dozen better ideas, and a pronounced shift in his running shorts.
3.
The two sit cross-legged inside the rear of the Zoo Security SUV.
“How often do you run?” Sean rests against the SUV wall. “I feel like I see you all the time.”
“Nice try, but I’m not giving you my schedule so you can chase me out.” Andy’s lips curl up in a smirk, the soreness reminding him of his injury.
“No, really.”
Sean is so disarming the CIA should hire him to get foreign spies to spill state secrets.
“Mmm, every day. Nine miles.”
“Dude, that’s a lot. What are you running from?”
Ouch. “Human imperfection,” Andy quips. “Disappointment.”
He immediately regrets sounding so cynical. “It’s my favorite time of the day,” Andy says. “No one has screwed anything up yet. Everything is still so pure and unspoiled."
“Well, I want you to take tomorrow off,” Sean says assertively.
Twenty percent of Andy is ready to tell him off, but the other eighty percent sighs at the redhead’s concern.
“I’m fine.”
“No, really, because—”
“Sean, I appreciate the persistence. But I know my limits. Runners get hurt all the time.”
He’s heard all the reasons before. There’s no need to have the guard repeat them, earnest as he is.
Sean shrugs, opens his thermos, and pours some steaming coffee into the cup that doubles as a lid. Beads of perspiration form on his cheeks as he passes it to Andy, who takes a sip. The coffee is good—surprisingly good—and warm.
“That’s like a hundred times better than my coffee,” Andy offers, the compliment landing a little flat.
Sean looks deflated, and Andy regrets his earlier brusqueness. He doesn’t mean to be unkind.
“You’ll make a good EMT,” he offers.
“Thanks,” Sean responds. “Took a while to figure out what I wanted to do, but, like, I really like helping people, y’know?”
Andy passes him the cup, and Sean takes a drink, finishing what’s left in the cup before refilling it from the thermos.
“I can see that,” Andy says.
He can also see the downy golden hair on the guard’s tan forearms and legs, the inviting V of his shirt collar. The way his shirt hugs his chest. His chunky size 13 boots. And what may be a little doughy quality to his midsection, which only adds to his cuddly appeal.
“It’s not surprising,” Andy adds. “A lot of my ADHD kids are brilliant; it’s just that systems aren’t set up for them. But when they find their place, they blossom.”
Sean nods, and there’s a moment of silence, but it feels comfortable.
“Hey, did you know crows have really good memories?” Sean asks, refilling the cup with coffee and passing it back to Andy. “They remember faces. That one will probably hold a grudge until you make things right with it.”
Andy is aghast. “Make it right? I am not going to spend my days trying to make things right with that emo-chicken. What am I supposed to do? Send it a fruit basket? To Crow, Care of the Zoo?”
Sean snorts, but has a suggestion. “I thought more like leaving some peanuts whenever you run through or something.”
“Peanuts? Peanuts?”
Sean shrugs. “They’re not so bad. Probably just on edge from the storm is all.”
Andy has to admire the guard’s way of seeing through the bird’s prickly exterior, ridiculous as it is.
“I thought you were just an asshole.” The words fall awkwardly in an attempt to compliment the guard as Andy passes back the thermos cup. “But you’re not.”
“Well, thanks for that, I guess,” Sean replies, chuckling.
“Come on,” Andy says. “Seriously. I was just running, and you were always chasing me out, with your flashlight and that siren. BWOOP BWOOP.”
Sean giggles, a little and then a lot.
“What’s so funny?”
“You thought I was chasing you out. I was looking for you. Between school and work, I’m usually pretty beat and driving around looking at the same lots all the time in the dark is mind-numbing. Looking for you was something to look forward to during long nights. Like a game. ‘Hey, there’s my running guy!’ You helped me stay alert more than the caffeine did.”
Sean knocks back some coffee, and it’s Andy’s turn to be confused.
“You were looking for me?” Sean’s cheeks and ears flush.
“Well. Let’s say you wear your shorts well.” Andy pauses.
“So BWOOP BWOOP means… what, nice assets?”
“He gets it!” Sean guffaws. “The runner gets it!”
“You communicated by siren?”
“Flirted, to be technical.”
“Why didn’t you just say something?”
“Well, there was this thing where you’d run away before I could get to you. Like you didn’t want to talk.”
Meep meep.
As Andy takes this in, Sean adds, “You won’t have to worry about me for long. It’s my last day on the job.”
“What?” Andy asks, startled. “Why?”
“Graduating, and giving up these wheels for my real EMT rig. And maybe some better hours.”
"Oh." The news hits Andy harder than the asphalt did. He sips his coffee, suddenly seeing that Sean has been his one constant companion during the whole time he’s run the zoo lots. When he thought he was alone.
"That's... soon."
"Better make the most of it then, twinkletoes." The ruddy flush of Sean’s cheeks deepens.
When they lean in close and their lips meet, Andy aches. But when he thinks about Sean leaving, the hurt feels right.
4.
The Zoo Security SUV rocks with the jerking of shirts being pulled off, hips and legs twisting to strip shorts. Andy winces as his shoulder scrapes the seat. Sean's uniform resists his clumsy, eager fingers. Buttons ping throughout the cabin as Sean yanks it open, revealing the flushed skin beneath. Boots and stubborn runner's knots come last.
Their lips lock again, tongues wrestling and teeth glancing.
“I don’t want to… hurt you,” Sean murmurs between smacking kisses, feeling Andy’s lips and teeth along his ear and neck.
“I told you—unf—I know my—limits,” Andy gasps, feeling Sean’s teeth on his ear and neck. “And we have a long way—to go.”
He pushes Sean down to get a look at his skin under Andy’s fingers, ruddy and warm. Fine, blond-red hairs spring under his touch. A hint of softness to his tummy, then lower—a beautiful cock, pink and pale, swinging free. Delicious.
Andy's skin is olive-toned and smooth, even across his chest where there are only a few glossy hairs. His dark pubes are soft and fine. His muscles don’t have the heft of Sean's, but they're well-defined and supple, the result of his running discipline.
He tenses slightly as Sean's hand brushes against the abrasion on his side, and eases as the hands move onto his flat stomach and slim waist, and then onto his cock, stiff and dark, almost violet with arousal, a clear sign of his desire.
"You're so fucking hot," Andy murmurs, exploring Sean's body with hands and lips. He sucks on one of Sean's pink nipples, ringed with a halo of golden fur, and sighs, teasing his own hard cock.
They kiss and roll over, Sean on top, pinning Andy to the floor of the SUV, tucking the folded blanket under his head as a makeshift pillow. "Assessing the patient," he says, in his playful tease.
He lowers himself to kiss Andy's shoulder. "Does that hurt?" (No, though Andy subtly shifts.)
"Does this?" A gentle nip at Andy's nipple. (Not yet.) (Keep going.) (Please keep going.)
Sean continues his descent, asking "Does this?" with each nibble and kiss, making Andy writhe, a low groan escaping him that's partly pleasure, partly the aches from his fall, making his response more intense. Sean traces a path down to his cock. He laps at it, taking it deep into his mouth, making Andy groan out loud. When Andy looks down, his fingers are entwined in golden-red curls as Sean swallows him.
Sean flips Andy onto his belly. "There it is," he announces with a mischievous grin—the prize he’s been chasing, cupping the cheeks in his hands. BWOOP BWOOP!
Andy has to laugh. “You’re ridicul—aah, oh fuck.” His laughter melts to a sigh as Sean’s mouth devours his hole.
When he's made Andy moan enough to satisfy his most immediate need, Sean moves back up, the sandpaper roughness of his coppery whiskers teasing up Andy's back on the way to kiss his mouth, hard and wet.
Twisting around to get on his knees, Andy grabs Sean's cock, surprised again by its size and heat, its pale skin stretched taut. He slathers it with spit and strokes it with an admiring hand, the sting of his scrapes fading into the background. Sean’s gasps and groans fill the small space, urging him on. As he swallows Sean deeper, he feels a surge thinking of how much more he wants to give him. He could keep going forever, but he has something even more enticing in mind.
"Something here—" Andy rummages through the first aid kit, his voice raspy. Aha! Lotion. Cool cream, snow-white in his palm. He scoops some up and wraps his hand around Sean's cock, the contrast of the cool cream to Sean’s throbbing cock a jolt. He shivers, a visible tremor running through his body that makes Andy's breath catch.
"Get in me," he demands, his confidence leaving no doubt about his desire or ability.
“Cool,” grins the guard, the red of his already ruddy face deepening.
He eases into Andy with a careful restraint that only heightens the anticipation. Andy breathes in, desperate for more, but resists the urge to surge forward, letting Sean fill him gradually. He wants to savor it, to draw out the pleasure. With each inch of slow, deliberate progress, Sean kisses him, the soft pressure against his lips sending shivers down his spine. When Sean is finally buried to the base of his flaming red pubic hair, Andy lets out a long sigh, his body arching into Sean's.
With his legs wrapped tight around Sean, pulling him in as close as he can, he grins. "Fuck me," he breathes, so ready.
Within the close quarters of the SUV, Sean starts to thrust, his hips driving his cock in and nearly out again, teasing them both by almost withdrawing to the glistening pink head of his hard-on before plunging back in. But with each stroke, Sean's thrusts grow faster and harder as Andy's groans and tight grip spur him on.
Their bodies fall into a perfect rhythm, Sean pushing forward as Andy rocks back to meet him, fluid and natural as if they've done this a thousand times before. Andy's runner's stamina matches Sean's raw strength; their bodies move together in the rapidly heating confined space. Each slam deepens the intensity of their shared gasps and moans, their sweaty skin sliding together in perfect sync.
Suddenly Sean’s breath catches as he reaches his peak with frantic, rapid thrusts, shooting his load inside Andy. His grinding hips drive the first shot and the following surges deeper in. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, OH FUCK!”
"Oh fuck yeah, right there," Andy growls, distracted from his own cock by Sean cumming in him. But he's so close—so very close—that when suddenly Sean's full lips meet his, his tongue darting into Andy's mouth, Andy is overwhelmed and cum shoots onto his chest and belly as Sean slams into him with all his strength.
They grind into each other until they can’t, and then collapse together, limbs tangled, a temporary runner’s knot of flesh and desire. Their hands drift over one another’s bodies, mapping trails in their shared sweat, until Sean shifts. He spoons Andy from behind, pulling him close, chest to back, his body a comforting weight against Andy's aches.
It happened so quickly. Too fast.
All Andy wants is to do this again and again. But—these things are like lightning. They strike once.
They’ll part soon. But they’ll have this moment, when it’s all just pure potential, undiminished by the inevitable disappointments and betrayals. Let that be enough.
But not just yet.
He traces the shamrock tattooed onto Sean’s skin inside the forearm under him. "How long do you have?"
"Half hour, maybe.” Sean’s lips smack. He sounds drowsy. "Then some paperwork, and I'm out."
“Paperwork on Saturday?”
“Zoo’s open every day. Then a drive to my parents’ place. It’s a whole… thing.”
Half an hour? That's all?
Andy turns in Sean's embrace to face him, reaching down to stroke the guard’s semi, his own cock stirring in response. Sean’s eyes meet his, reviving. "We'd better—what did you say?—make the most of it?"
"You think you can?" Sean asks, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.
"Sean Maguire,” Andy responds, in mock defiance, “I am an endurance athlete. I can go any distance you set.”
Sean hands Andy the jar of cream and rolls onto his belly, his rear lifting in unspoken invitation. Andy grips the pale, firm curves of his ass, twin rushes of both lust and tenderness coursing through him. He settles his weight against the handsome redhead and guides his cream-slicked cock toward that tight, welcoming heat.
Barely parting his lips, Sean rasps, "Get in me."
A small groan escapes Andy as he shifts, his bruised muscles protesting slightly, but he meets Sean's demand with a determined glint. As their precious second lap begins, a nearby lion roars, and a flurry of dark wings catches the air as they take flight.
5.
It’s nearing sunup as Andy pulls on his running shirt while Sean buttons his khaki uniform, the buttons that are still attached anyway.
Good luck explaining that when you turn it in, Andy might say, if his chest didn’t ache as much as it does.
“So about tomorrow—” Sean begins.
“I appreciate the persistence,” Andy cuts him off. “But injuries are par for the course for runners.”
The look in Sean’s eyes melts his heart. He can’t let the soon-to-be EMT feel he flubbed his first rescue, even if nothing about it was regulation. What kind of parting gift would that be?
“Okay,” Andy concedes. “Tomorrow is off. It’s an official rest day.”
“Promise me,” Sean asks, running his fingers over Andy’s back.
“I’m not in the habit of making promises to strange men,” Andy grins, trying to play it cool.
Sean takes Andy's face in his mitt-like hands, careful around the angry bruise blooming on Andy's lip. The kiss that follows is so tender it barely hurts. In fact, Andy wishes it would hurt more, to more accurately manifest his feelings.
"What about guys who save you from killer crows?" Sean’s voice is a low murmur against Andy’s lips.
Andy melts into another kiss, mumbling, "Sure. I promise.” A deep sigh. “Happy now?"
That kiss lingers, a drawn-out ending. Andy slides out of the SUV into the cool morning air. His leg aches, but he’s run on worse. It’ll cope.
He scans the trees and light posts of the parking lot for any vengeful birds, and seeing none, makes his way through the lot, masking his slight limp for Sean. See? Totally fine. Definitely not falling apart.
At the edge of the lot, the boundary of Sean's territory, Andy turns back. The first full rays of the morning sun catch Sean's copper curls like a match strike as he waves.
Turning, Andy faces the short trek home. This is gonna hurt worse than the leg.
For as many miles as he’s run, this short distance leading away is the most daunting he’s ever faced.
“The first three blocks are a liar,” Andy whispers. The runner’s mantra against emotional weakness. “Go.”
He walks down the quiet street, his leg finding its rhythm with every step, like it always does. At two blocks it’s not his limb that falters, but his heart. He stops, feeling a powerful urge to turn back, to hobble-hop if needed, to see if Sean’s still there. Before he can act, a flutter of wings overhead prompts him to throw his hands overhead, bracing for an attack.
But it isn’t a crow. WHEEE WHEEE! An entirely different bird trills. He knows this one, sort of. He dubbed it “the wheee wheee bird” in his mental catalog of neighborhood wildlife.
“Hi,” he says, looking up. “It’s just us.”
WHEEE WHEEE! it responds.
Then, cutting through the morning air: BWOOP! BWOOP!
The Zoo Security SUV idles just behind Andy, like a concerned parent. Sean's behind the wheel wearing mirrored sunglasses. His forearm rests on the car door through the open window.
"Just ensuring civilian safety, sir," Sean's voice crackles through the speaker. "Keep it moving."
"People are sleeping!" Andy whisper-shouts through embarrassed delight.
"Not with that strut they're not," Sean teases.
BWOOP!
"Oh my God! Stop! I can make it home without an escort," Andy protests feebly.
Sean clicks off the speaker, leaning out the window to say in a hush, "Then how will I know where to bring coffee tomorrow?"
Oh.
Oh.
A warmth spreads through Andy. He resumes his long, slow walk, his bad leg pulled along by the beating in his chest. The SUV crawls just behind him. Watchful. Patient. Faithful.
At his bungalow, Andy climbs the steps and makes an exaggerated production of pointing back and forth between his house number and himself. *This is me. Got it?
Sean nods with mock disinterest, a playful twitch at the corner of his lips. Then a full-on grin spreads across his handsome mug as he accelerates and drives away, leaving a swirl of dust in his trail.
Standing on his porch, Andy watches his coyote depart for now. "Meep meep." A grin spreads across Andy's face, mirroring Sean's.
He turns to go in and stops, his fingertips resting on the doorknob. Tomorrow may be a rest day, but it’s still early, and his leg feels a little better already.
Down in the street, he bounces on the balls of his feet, testing the leg. There’s a little grocery store that can’t be more than a mile away, maybe two. They must be just opening. He can manage that. He does need to get peanuts.
It’s a good day for a peace offering. Or a thank you, at least.
His foot strikes the road and he runs into the sunrise.
