digital timer from his pocket, setting it to 0:00:00.000. Zach, in his capacity as financier, had insisted on a timing device for Cromwell that would be accurate to within a thousandth of a second. Kevin had begun to use it to time his treks to Paw Patch—he no longer took the bike stroller—as well as neighborhood jogs.
“Okay, Cromwell,” he said, then pressed a button to start the clock.
It beeped once, and Kevin and Cromwell broke into a run.
15
K evin and Cromwell always ran the exact same path through Welles Park—this was essential, according to Zach, for accurate timing. They jogged past the same serious-looking lawn bowlers; past the tennis courts, where errant shots distracted Cromwell; past the soccer field, where adults played; and past a small, hunched-over ice cream man who persistently tempted Kevin with snow cones.
But Kevin averted his eyes and kept running.
Not fast, exactly. Other runners passed him, and he rarely passed anyone. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then wiped the back of his hand on his T-shirt. Cromwell galloped, his tongue flopping. Kevin was singing along (badly, like an English-speaking sheep) to a random selection of songs on his iPod.
Park-goers stared. Some smiled. Others laughed. Kevin kept running.
He checked his timer.
0:10:36.007 …
The fractions of seconds ticked by, way too fast to follow. Kevin liked the meaningless precision. He checked again.
0:10:38.198 …
Kevin soon arrived at the south end of the park, emerging from the grass-lined path and onto an intersection at a side street that would lead east to North Clark. His head swiveled, checking for traffic, and then he urged Cromwell to cross.
But the dog had stopped.
Kevin looked down at Cromwell, who was barking—rather cheerfully—toward the street.
Looking up, Kevin saw his sister’s grinning face poking out of the Bears-branded Tahoe. She waved. Kevin waved back. Then he saw his father chuckling behind the wheel, and his mom seated on the passenger side, a mixture of horror and amazement playing on her face.
Kevin shut off the iPod.
Seconds later, becoming acutely self-aware, he stopped singing. Cromwell kept woofing away.
“Oh, um … hey,” said Kevin.
“Hey, yourself!” said his dad, somewhat mockingly. “Where are you in such a hurry to get to?”
“Nowhere,” said Kevin. “Just running.” He discreetly turned off the timer.
“You need to take it easy on this exercise, kid,” said Howie. “It’s critical to maintain your weight for football. We’ll get you playin’ again in the fall!”
Maggie slapped his arm.
“It’s lovely that you’re running, dear,” she said. “We’re all going to Water Tower right now so that I can return four hundred dollars’ worth of clothes that won’t fit you. And one nice—if somewhat old-fashioned—blue sweater. Would you like to join us?”
“C’mon!” Howie said. “Hop in, kid.”
“No,” said Kevin, breathing hard. “I’m good. Think I’ll, um … head over to Zach’s.”
“That’s, like, two miles away, Kev!” said his dad. “You’re running away from Zach’s right now.”
“It’s actually just 1.38 miles away,” said Kevin. He immediately regretted the precision.
“Whoooooaa …,” said Howie. “Sor
-ry
, Mister GPS. My mistake.” He laughed. “Well, would you like a 1.38-mile ride to Zachary’s?” They stared at each other for a moment, father and son. Then Howie continued. “I’m telling you, Kev, big men like you and me—and there’s still a big man in there, in spite of this clothes thing—we weren’t necessarily built for jogging. We’re not your long-distance types.”
Kevin kept staring.
A car behind the Tahoe honked. Howie lifted his arms indignantly.
“Just havin’ a conversation, here!” he shouted. Maggie waved the car around.
Cromwell whimpered. Kevin fingered the timer in his pocket.
“No, I don’t need a ride,” he said impatiently. “Or
“Okay, Cromwell,” he said, then pressed a button to start the clock.
It beeped once, and Kevin and Cromwell broke into a run.
15
K evin and Cromwell always ran the exact same path through Welles Park—this was essential, according to Zach, for accurate timing. They jogged past the same serious-looking lawn bowlers; past the tennis courts, where errant shots distracted Cromwell; past the soccer field, where adults played; and past a small, hunched-over ice cream man who persistently tempted Kevin with snow cones.
But Kevin averted his eyes and kept running.
Not fast, exactly. Other runners passed him, and he rarely passed anyone. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then wiped the back of his hand on his T-shirt. Cromwell galloped, his tongue flopping. Kevin was singing along (badly, like an English-speaking sheep) to a random selection of songs on his iPod.
Park-goers stared. Some smiled. Others laughed. Kevin kept running.
He checked his timer.
0:10:36.007 …
The fractions of seconds ticked by, way too fast to follow. Kevin liked the meaningless precision. He checked again.
0:10:38.198 …
Kevin soon arrived at the south end of the park, emerging from the grass-lined path and onto an intersection at a side street that would lead east to North Clark. His head swiveled, checking for traffic, and then he urged Cromwell to cross.
But the dog had stopped.
Kevin looked down at Cromwell, who was barking—rather cheerfully—toward the street.
Looking up, Kevin saw his sister’s grinning face poking out of the Bears-branded Tahoe. She waved. Kevin waved back. Then he saw his father chuckling behind the wheel, and his mom seated on the passenger side, a mixture of horror and amazement playing on her face.
Kevin shut off the iPod.
Seconds later, becoming acutely self-aware, he stopped singing. Cromwell kept woofing away.
“Oh, um … hey,” said Kevin.
“Hey, yourself!” said his dad, somewhat mockingly. “Where are you in such a hurry to get to?”
“Nowhere,” said Kevin. “Just running.” He discreetly turned off the timer.
“You need to take it easy on this exercise, kid,” said Howie. “It’s critical to maintain your weight for football. We’ll get you playin’ again in the fall!”
Maggie slapped his arm.
“It’s lovely that you’re running, dear,” she said. “We’re all going to Water Tower right now so that I can return four hundred dollars’ worth of clothes that won’t fit you. And one nice—if somewhat old-fashioned—blue sweater. Would you like to join us?”
“C’mon!” Howie said. “Hop in, kid.”
“No,” said Kevin, breathing hard. “I’m good. Think I’ll, um … head over to Zach’s.”
“That’s, like, two miles away, Kev!” said his dad. “You’re running away from Zach’s right now.”
“It’s actually just 1.38 miles away,” said Kevin. He immediately regretted the precision.
“Whoooooaa …,” said Howie. “Sor
-ry
, Mister GPS. My mistake.” He laughed. “Well, would you like a 1.38-mile ride to Zachary’s?” They stared at each other for a moment, father and son. Then Howie continued. “I’m telling you, Kev, big men like you and me—and there’s still a big man in there, in spite of this clothes thing—we weren’t necessarily built for jogging. We’re not your long-distance types.”
Kevin kept staring.
A car behind the Tahoe honked. Howie lifted his arms indignantly.
“Just havin’ a conversation, here!” he shouted. Maggie waved the car around.
Cromwell whimpered. Kevin fingered the timer in his pocket.
“No, I don’t need a ride,” he said impatiently. “Or
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