“If you’d quit talking, you could get into a rhythm,” said Brazil, who ran without effort in navy Charlotte P.D. sweats and Saucony shoes that whispered when they touched the red rubberized track.

“You really ought to quit wearing Charlotte shit,” she went on talking anyway. “It’s bad enough as is. Why make the cops here hate us more?”

“I don’t think they hate us.” Brazil tried to be positive about how unfriendly and unappreciative Richmond cops had been.

“Yes they do.”

“Nobody likes change,” Brazil reminded her.

“You seem to,” she said.

It was a veiled reference to the rumor West had heard barely a week after they had moved here. Brazil had something going on with his landlady, a wealthy single woman who lived in Church Hill. West had asked for no further information. She had checked out nothing. She did not want to know. She had refused to drive past Brazil’s house, much less drop by for a visit.

“I guess I like change when it’s good,” Brazil was saying.

“Exactly.”

“Do you wish you’d stayed in Charlotte?”

“Absolutely.”

Brazil picked up his pace just enough to give her his back. She would never forgive him for saying how much he wanted her to come with him to Richmond, for talking her into something yet one more time because he could, because he used words with clarity and conviction. He had carried her away on the rhythm of feelings he clearly no longer had. He had crafted his love into poetry and then fucking read it to someone else.

“There’s nothing for me here,” said West, who put words together the way she hung doors and shutters and built fences. “I mean let’s be honest about it.” She wasn’t about to paint over anything without stripping it first. “It sucks.” She sawed away. “Thank God it’s only for a year.” She pounded her point.

He replied by picking up his pace.

“Like we’re some kind of MASH unit for police departments,” she added. “Who were we kidding? What a waste of time. I don’t remember when I’ve wasted so much time.”

Brazil glanced at his watch. He didn’t seem to be listening to her, and she wished she could get past his broad shoulders and handsome profile. The early sun rubbed gold into his hair. The two college women sprinted past, sweaty and fat-free, their muscular legs pumping as they showed off to Brazil. West felt depressed. She felt old. She halted and bent over, hands on her knees.

“That’s it!” she exclaimed, heaving.

“Forty-six more seconds.” Brazil ran in place like he was treading water, looking back at her.

“Go on.”

“You sure?”

“Fly like the wind.” She rudely waved him on. “Damn it,” she bitched as her flip phone vibrated on the waistband of her running shorts.

She moved off the track, over to the bleachers, out of the way of hard-bodied people who made her insecure.

“West,” she answered.

“Virginia? It’s . . .” Hammer’s voice pushed through static.