The Longest Mile

His feet don’t hit the ground anymore—they break into it.

The trail doesn’t end. It loops, folds, devours itself. Like intestines. Like a tape reel left in the sun. Dirt becomes sand becomes rock becomes mud becomes dirt again. One foot. Then the other. Knees like rusted hinges. Ankles glassing over. Blisters have opened blisters. Socks stiff with blood.

No map. No finish line. Just movement. Forward is faith. Forward is the lie you repeat until it becomes gospel.

He hasn’t eaten in—how long?

There was a bar. Chocolate and oats and something that once claimed to be almond. He chewed it slow. Like rationing forgiveness. That was yesterday. Or last week. Time stopped syncing with heartbeat long ago.

His name is Kevin.

Or maybe not. Kevin sounds like someone with a mortgage. With a dentist. With weekends.

Out here he’s just friction and breath and whatever’s left in the tank.