IN THE MORNING, THERE WERE EGGS AND COFFEE IN THE HOSTEL’S kitchen. The owner of the place, a youngish man who lived in an upstairs apartment, promised to mail Luz’s postcard for her. He nodded to her drawing on the card as she handed it to him.
“¿Una mariposa?” he asked.
“La mariposa monarca,” Luz told him with a shrug, “en su jornada.”
The young man nodded with appreciation. He wished Luz well on her own journey. She thanked him and left the hostel. The day was bright and clear.
She made her way back to the beach to see it in the light. She took off her sneakers and tied the laces together and hung them from one of her backpack straps. The sand was white and glaring and soft underfoot. Warmth that spread from her soles up through her body. Small waves rolled in. There were distant container ships and tankers. Nearer were the fishing vessels and party barges for vacationing tourists. One Jet Ski chased another, tossing tall spumes of water. There were families on the beach, children screaming with glee. Sunbathers and couples walking hand in hand. Near the water, two young girls—Luz guessed they were sisters—held a footrace. Their brown legs churned, and the spray of water and sand sparkled as they went. Somewhere, dance music beat from a stereo, and everybody everywhere was going on with their lives. It was a beautiful day. From a certain vantage point the day existed by itself, independent of the days before and not yet leaning toward the days to come, and Luz saw this and made herself at home in it, now and now and now again in the spaces between her breaths.
Luz walked to the damp sand where the water slid ashore and rushed away. She followed the shoreline south. She shielded her eyes and watched the families where they kicked footballs or dozed in the sun or molded sand castles. She came upon the two young girls who had been racing. They were breathing with their hands on their knees, and now they were lining up to race again. They were deeply tanned and shining in their bathing suits, their black hair braided into long pigtails. They waved to Luz and called to her to race against them, laughing, not thinking she would. Then they were off and Luz leaped to run alongside, and the girls seemed both pleased and surprised, not saying anything but grinning and pushing themselves all the harder. They were running for no reason other than the pleasure of it. Luz’s backpack bounced and she loved the burning in her calves as her feet recycled through the wet sand. She kept her pace close to that of the laughing sisters, falling ahead, falling behind, pulling even and making a race of it. There were no lanes here—just the open beach stretching on, knitted with the continual surge of the sea, relentless even as it was dependable. Luz kept running, pulling past the sisters as they tired and slowed and shouted to her. Luz spun and backpedaled and waved to them where they stood, smiling and waving after her. Luz spun forward, focusing on the way her hamstrings stretched, the way the muscles in her lower back loosened. She settled into a rhythm. She thought she could keep it up for a good long while. She reached to find her ghost runner, and it was only now that she realized he was not there.