Hey. C’mon. Where’re you—? What do you want me to say? You’re being completely insane.

I stopped walking and yelped in frustration. It just burst out of me. I was shaking, with adrenalin. Am I throwing a little tantrum, I thought, yes, I think I am, right here in the middle of the street. I laughed at myself. Christ on a cracker. I was beyond the reach of even Paul’s compassion. Was that really it? Was that all he was capable of? I wanted to tell him I know what I fucking hear and it’s your deficiency, Paul, not mine, that you don’t believe me. I turned around to shout, but found him already beside me, reaching out, and enfolding me in his arms. I let him hold me for a long, still moment, until he said, with tenderness, I believe you.

I wiped my nose. No, you don’t.

I do. He whispered it into my ear and held me tighter. I do, I believe you. I believe you, and I love you. He pulled away, and I turned around to look at him. I love you, he said again.

That’s when I noticed the sky beginning to lighten. A moment later, I heard the first trill of birdsong.

Did you hear that? I asked.

He sighed and shook his head. No.

It’s morning.

2

I USED TO THINK JOGGERS WERE THE LOWEST FORM OF life on Earth. I vowed never to debase myself like that. And yet, within two years of moving to this area, I had a thirty-minute morning route. Even I was startled by the speed with which my conviction collapsed. On my morning runs I liked watching cars parked along the street emerge from the dawn mist. They seemed like armoured dinosaurs, or giant, prehistoric armadillos. Houses became the fog-cloaked cliff faces of some Mesozoic canyon. In this netherworld, I liked to imagine that all time existed on top of itself; ancient creatures living alongside those of the future. I was just as likely to happen upon a startled deer as I was a drone, piloted by some neighbour’s antisocial son. But most mornings I didn’t encounter a single other soul. It was usually the one time of day I could be alone with my body. When I could become pure motion.

When it came to jogging, I was a creature of habit. I wore the same pair of leggings, the same top, the same sunglasses. I always set out at six, on the dot. If I set out a few minutes later, I felt behind the entire day. I called that feeling ‘dragging my ass.’ I liked to avoid it. I stuck to the same route because I knew better—I was hopeless with directions, and the streets in my neighbourhood twist and loop back on themselves, such that even after six years I still found myself getting turned around.