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I emerged at the front, escaping that fear I have of being hemmed in, I suppose. I found myself leading the boys past one warehouse after another until I got a rough sense of direction from the lights far up on the Lower East Side glittering on the Hudson. That too became something to run from, another place I only wanted to remember as an ideal. My heart was beating fast, both from the running and the fear that one of the guys would ask why we weren’t running uptown, where drinks and girls would be plenty. The double-rush of adrenaline made me feel drunker than before. I was dizzy with it, so light-headed, to the point where I thought my brain would float away, leaving just a pair of running legs and this urgent heartbeat. But nothing was said. We were all overtaken with running; the strength and enjoyment of it. Our feet and breath became harmonized, and if someone had suggested we run all the way home, we were all of the presence of mind to possibly attempt it. Once we left the dockside, uncertainty sat in the air, but I was still at the front, still being followed. I kept my eyes ahead. We passed the factory where my father worked his whole life but I stayed fixed on the street. I didn’t turn my head at the chimneys that used to fascinate me as a kid. Nor at the gated entrance where I would wait for him at the end of the day and where the vans delivering raw hides from all over the city passed. I never stopped. They all ran with my fear on their shoulders. Their muscles ached with it. Only as we reached the bridge did I slow, relishing in the boundary before me; knowing that once I was in Brooklyn I could not be touched. I could drink in Brooklyn. Breathe, and be my own man. Feel that he wasn’t standing over my shoulder. So I spent the last money I had getting the boys even more drunk and ridding myself of that feeling. With every glass I felt lighter, lighter.

      I stayed in the cot and kept lookout.

      BEN REMAINS PERFECTLY STILL, though his restlessness shows in his eyes. They roam. Vishni has given him a plate of eggs, followed by fruit; a menu designed to banish tiredness and prevent bloating in morning subjects, and it would please her to see how he ripples with energy. The tremors across his eyebrows crackle with it. He hesitates to speak, not wanting to disturb my concentration, a mood I silently encourage. Unhappy with the previous day’s work, I fix him in a variety of poses until I find something I am happy with. The easy chair is dragged back to the corner. Now he is naked on the blanket, lying on his side, his knees pulled halfway toward his chest, as if he is in the process of curling or uncurling; paralyzed by sleep were it not for the strength of his eyes. He makes no complaint about the discomfort of his position. The thin foam mattress under the blanket is deeply pocked in places, so that the floor’s chill can be felt. The draft from the open window ruffles his hair and the thin tangle of curls across his prick and balls. At the completion of each sketch, where line and form takes precedence over other details, I have him up on his feet to regain his circulation. I use the exercises that you are so familiar with, and at various times, contemptuous of. Body stretches from top to toe, followed by a couple of minutes’ jogging on the spot, as much as my condition will allow. He does as you used to at the beginning, laughing heartily and with some disbelief as I join in with him; someone who notoriously showed little interest in most physical activity.

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