LUZ LAY AWAKE IN THE BARRACKS ROOM. WHEN SHE STARTED running track in the ninth grade she had been terrified of veering from her narrow lane, careening into the other runners. She had nightmares about embarrassing catastrophes. But her worry had been needless. She discovered that her feet stayed locked within her lane. With the sound of the starting gun, her soles found the path and she couldn’t have left her lane if she wished.
She had felt her ghost runner stumble in the trees, near the fire. But she imagined she hadn’t left him behind completely. Where was she running to now? The only thing that hadn’t changed was the shape of the track. “Esta pista,” she muttered, “es un círculo sin salida.” It was a path born from neither her hopes nor her wishes, yet she found it soldered to her feet all the same.