We’re in and it’s final, because if we back out now, we’ll probably end up at the bottom of the harbour. Down near the oil spill, in garbage bags. Well that’s exaggerating of course, but who knows? Who knows what kind of seedy world we’ve just entered? Our only knowledge is that we can make money, and maybe some self-respect.

As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We’ve still been running in the mornings, but the city’s different then. It’s filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it’s like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning. I see a dead starling as we walk. It’s next to a beer bottle in the gutter. Both are empty of soul, and we can only walk by in silence, watching people who watch us, ignoring people who ignore us, and Rube growling at people who attempt to force us from the footpath. Our eyes are large and rimmed with awakeness. Our ears detect every opened-up sound. We smell the impact of traffic and humans. Humans and traffic. Back and forth. We taste our moment, swallowing it, knowing it. We feel our nerves twitching inside our stomachs, lunging at our skin from beneath.

When morning slits across the horizon the following day, we have already been running for a while. As we do so, Rube discusses a few things with me. He wants a punching bag. He wants a skipping rope. He wants more speed and another pair of gloves so we can fight properly for practice. He wants headgear so we don’t kill each other doing it. He wants.

He wants hard.

He runs and there is purpose in his feet, and there’s hunger in his eyes and desire in his voice. I’ve never seen him like this. Like he wants so savagely to be somebody and to fight for it.

When we get home, sunshine splashes across his face. Again. A collision.