Rash (25 page)

By the way, what ever happened with Sam?

SPECIFY SAM.

My brother. Sam Marsten. Did you ever get his sentence reduced?

HIS SENTENCE WAS COMMUTED TO PAROLE SEVEN DAYS AGO. HOWEVER, HE WAS ARRESTED THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON AT A RESTAURANT IN DES MOINES, IOWA, AFTER GETTING INTO AN ALTERCATION WITH ANOTHER PATRON.

Oh. That sounds like Sam.

I MUST GO NOW, BO.

See you later.

I FEAR NOT, BO.

Bork was right. That was our last conversation.

The next
morning I rolled out of bed an hour before dawn, dressed in the dark, and crept silently past my mother’s room. I stopped in front of Gramps’s door. Maybe he’d like to come along. If anyone would appreciate what I was doing, it would be Gramps. . . . But how would he react to being awakened at five o’clock in the morning? Probably not well. Besides, I wasn’t doing it for Gramps. It was something I had to do for myself.

I let myself into the garage and turned on the light. There, on a high shelf with several other boxes full of ancient junk, was the old Nike box. I climbed onto the hood of Mom’s suv, reached up, and grabbed the box.

I thought about taking the suv. There would be almost no traffic at that time of day. But I would not be of legal driving age—twenty-six—for nearly ten years. And if I got caught . . . well, I. B. Orkmeister was no longer available to get me off.

I tucked the Nike box under my arm and headed out on foot, leaving my walking helmet behind.

Washington Campus looked as still and dead as a ghost
town. No movement, no sound—only the hiss of distant traffic from the tubeway and the safety lighting along the walkways. I walked around the main building and let myself through the padded fence surrounding the athletic field. The stands were empty, of course. There would be no cheering crowd. I crossed the grassy apron and stepped onto the leaf-strewn track. My heart began to pound as memories flooded my body. Echoes of Coach Hackenshor shouting at us, the gluey feeling of the Adzorbium, and a plasticky, sweaty smell that for some reason made me think of Karlohs Mink. I followed the track around to the starting blocks, which no one had bothered to remove when the athletic program was suspended. Almost as if they were waiting for me.

I sat down in the grass beside the track and opened the Nike box. Gramps’s old track shoes, sixty years old, looked like something out of the Middle Ages. The leather uppers were dry and cracked but still bright yellow, even in the faint glow from the safety lights lining the track. The red and blue soles were still flexible. I took off my walking shoes and pulled one of the Nikes onto my right foot. It fit pretty good. The fastening was a set of thick nylon laces running back and forth across the top of the foot. I pulled on the laces. The shoe snugged itself. I put on the other shoe, tied the laces, stood up, and rocked back and forth. They were incredibly soft and light—more like socks than athletic shoes. There was no ankle support whatsoever, and the soles were so thin I imagined I could feel the blades of grass beneath my feet.

I stepped onto the track and walked a few paces. The Adzorbium felt like pizza dough. I did a little dance,
lifting my knees high, bouncing off the Adzorbium. It felt great.

“Lookin’ good, Tiger.”

I whirled at the sound of the voice. A figure separated itself from the viewing stands and approached.

“Gramps!” I’m sure my face turned red, but maybe he couldn’t see it in the dim light. “What are you doing here?”

“You get old like me, you don’t sleep so good,” he said. “Thought I heard somebody rummaging through the garage. Figured it was you.” He looked down at my feet. “Nice shoes.”

“I wanted to give them a try.”

“Don’t let me slow you down. Run a lap, see how you like ’em.”

Since I’d been about to do so, anyway, I took off slowly, getting used to the lightness of the footwear and reacquainting myself with the squishy texture of the Adzorbium. The track was a lozenge-shaped quarter of a mile. I kept my pace nice and easy, marveling at how little effort it required. I don’t know how long it took to run that first lap, but it felt like seconds.

“Like ’em?” Gramps asked when I glided to a full stop.

I nodded.

“Bet you could set a few school records in those babies,” he said.

I shrugged. “What’s the point?”

He nodded slowly. “What are you gonna do, Bo? Now that you’ve got your diploma and all.”

“Orkmeister left me a couple million
V
-bucks. I’m
thinking of heading down to South America,” I said. “They still run real races down there.”

“That they do.”

“It’s pretty dangerous, though.”

“That’s right. No walking helmets, no padded walls, no automated freeways. If I was fifty years younger, I’d go myself. In Argentina you can even order a beer in a restaurant.”

I laughed. “Want to time me in the hundred?”

“Why not? Maybe you’ll set a new family record.”

“That’s the plan.”

Gramps walked down the straightaway to the hundred meter marker while I positioned myself in the starter blocks.

“You ready?” he yelled.

“Ready!”

“Okay. Three. Two. One.
Go!
”

I went.