NEXT YEAR

”Mama?” Nora keeps shouting for Orla from her perch up on my shoulders. She pats me on the head with her chubby hands as I look through the crowd of runners for Orla.

”Not quite yet,” I tell her, watching as the stream of athletes streaks past. Orla’s family let me have the final leg of the marathon relay, which means I get to run through Bloomfield and downtown, to see my old stomping grounds and wave at my old customers. ...