On Sunday, Levi and I took a longish run together. It was four miles, which isn’t far for serious runners but that description encompasses neither he nor me.
It turned out to be a cold and dreary morning. An unyielding wind blasted us from the north as we trotted along the lakefront path. Still, I was determined to gain something from this magnificent effort of ours.
“So how did Mason get so banged up?” I asked.
“Have you asked him about it?”
“I have. He was unforthcoming.”
“But you figure I’ll be happy to blab whatever I know.”
“Well—” I start to equivocate, but Levi interrupts.
“That wasn’t a question.”
“So then,” I said, “How much do you know?”
“More than you.”
He’s lording this over me. I try to bump into him on purpose, but he manages an evasive swerve.
“Just tell me, did someone wreck Mason on purpose or did he really fall somehow?”
“You’re always putting me in this position.”
“It’s not fair,” I said. “I want to be the one in your position, where I know everything. You don’t even properly appreciate it.”
“I do, though,” Levi said. “Oh, I do.”
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.