“He’ll catch his death,” he said. “He goes running toward it like an old friend, and it will embrace him before he knows.” Tomás always shrugged off these comments. “I’m running with the wind,” he’d say. “And no one will ever catch me. Not even death.” I sag against the wall, and another bang shakes my memories. I tell myself that was all it was—thunder. A storm come to sweep him off his feet. Come to make him fly.
