THE NEXT day, early, he went back to the sporting goods to get some I shoes for his father. In their cardboard box the running shoes bulged his jacket a hump when he tucked them at his belly, sucked back toward his spine and up, into his ribs, fastened the plastic quarter buttons at the front flap. He took the box from his jacket, and then he set it down against the floor. He thought for a moment on what made the best course; he checked the aisle again. He bent down and scooped the shoebox, straightened up then and raised his left arm high at the shoulder, lodged the box long against his ribs, held it there tight when he dropped his arm down to keep it steady and wrapped the coat over.

Terry left the box on the kitchen table. Then he thought to wrap it, but he couldn’t find any paper in the house like that, so he got newspaper from the bin, unfolded the big front section and put the box to it, and then he wrapped it over the top, got clear plastic tape and fastened the seams, and then he left it there again, on the small kitchen table, where his father would sit.

The running shoes looked more like socks than shoes, off white with a red stripe on the sides and a red heel tab. That runner on television, the one whose heart worked different than most people, got more air and beat steady when he ran far and fast, he wore shoes like that.

Later Benjamin Webber came home and studied the box and then he took the shoes out and held them at the knot where the laces were tied together. They dangled beneath, a tree ornament, and he looked them over. He undid the laces, sat down and pulled his boots off at the heel. He put one foot, then the other in the running shoes, and then he tied them, stood up and worked his heels and forefeet around inside them. He rocked back and forth some, toe to heel. He walked a lap in the kitchen, and then he stopped beside the small table, looked down at the shoes and rocked some more.

Benjamin Webber said, I want to sleep in them. Terry said, I think they will make you very fast.