Before the accident, he was a runner, a state champion in high school, a conference medalist in his freshman year. On a humid Virginia night, he smashed his motorcycle into the statue of a Civil War hero. He ran again, but never like before, never again like that.
His girlfriend was a dancer. In their apartment, he asked her to dance for him. When she moved, he desired nothing, his soul at rest. Watching her, he recalled how the track glided beneath his feet and the ecstasy of release when he hit the final straightaway. And he remembered the moment before he crashed and the nights thick scent of peach blossoms.