The Longest Mile

His feet don't hit the ground anymore, they break into it.

CRACK. Metatarsal against granite. THUD. Heel into hardpack. SQUELCH. Toes through something that used to be his sock. The sound of meat arguing with geology and losing.

The trail doesn't end. It loops, folds, devours itself like a Möbius strip designed by someone who hates runners. Dirt becomes sand becomes rock becomes mud becomes glass becomes dirt again. The earth itself conspiring against forward motion. Each step a small apocalypse. Each breath a negotiation with physics.

Kevin, if that's still his name, hasn't eaten in seventy-three hours.

No. Eighty-one.

The last real meal: Chilean sea bass at Nobu. Miso glaze. Sake. Amanda across the table talking about their Cabo plans while he nodded and calculated his marathon splits in his head. That was nine days ago. Or ninety. Time operates on a different currency out here. Seconds are centuries. Hours collapse into heartbeats.

There was a PowerBar. Chocolate-flavored industrial waste pressed into the shape of optimism. He'd portioned it out like a junkie rationing his last hit. One square every ten miles. Then every twenty. Then he ate the wrapper, the aluminum crackling between his molars like tiny lightning.

That was yesterday. Or last week. Or never.