Race Across the Sky by Derek Sherman Page A

baby.”
    Caleb glanced at June, and then quickly touched Shane’s shoulder. “That’s awesome. Do you guys have a name?”
    â€œNicholas,” he confided, his voice lowering conspiratorially, as if someone might inform Janelle’s friends. “Nicholas Wei.”
    â€œWay cool.” June clapped her hands.
    Shane looked down sheepishly.
    â€œShould we go for a hike?” Caleb asked him suddenly.
    â€œDidn’t you just get in? You’re all sweaty.”
    â€œLet’s get you changed.”
    Shane followed his brother up a short flight of wood stairs. That he was this close was incredible to him. The days he had dreamed about some moment like this were too many to consider.
    The second floor emitted a thick scent of wood and skin. They passed a series of closed doors, which looked to have been made recently. Rooms, he guessed, had been divided. Caleb led him to the room that he shared with Kevin Yu. It was not dissimilar to a college dorm: two futon mattresses lay on the floor, separated by only a few feet. Next to Caleb’s was a small closet, open and full of folded T-shirts and a neat row of beaten sneakers, each the multiple colors of running shoes. Who had established this design sensibility, Shane wondered, and why? Swirls and lines of different colors, what had they to do with moving through nature?
    Under a window sat a boombox and a couple of blank CDs with handwritten labels. Shane squinted to read them; they appeared to be recordings of meditations. A stack of running magazines had been piled next to Kevin’s futon; each had clearly been read repeatedly. A small metal fan was plugged into a floor socket and spun uselessly.
    â€œWe can share this tonight,” Caleb offered, pointing to the mattress.
    â€œSure, cool.”
    â€œWe’re having a party. But we could go hear some music in town after?”
    â€œDon’t you guys go to bed pretty early?”
    â€œUsually around twelve. We get up at four.”
    â€œIn the morning?”
    â€œYou’re having a baby,” Caleb smiled. “Get used to four hours’ sleep.”
    Shane found running clothes in his bag. As he changed he was aware of Caleb watching him. He almost asked him then: what do you need that you can’t explain in your seven-point handwriting? But Caleb wanted to hike, he guessed, because he wanted to speak privately.
    Caleb was pointing. “Hey, that shirt.”
    Shane had brought an ancient Grateful Dead concert shirt he had purchased in Seattle in 1989. It had holes in both sides, was yellowed under the arms.
    â€œI remember you screaming at Mom for putting that in the dryer.”
    Shane glanced down. “I guess you can tell you’re getting old when your favorite shirts become workout shirts.”
    Walking downstairs he mentioned, “Hey, before we go, I need to eat something.”
    â€œWe eat at five.”
    â€œYeah, okay. But it’s twelve. All I ate was a muffin at the airport.”
    â€œWe don’t have anything.”
    â€œYou don’t have anything?”
    â€œYou can do it,” Caleb assured him, turning through the kitchen.
    Shane acquiesced. In contrast to his bluster with Janelle, his goal was to play ball here, to accept Caleb’s world, and keep all paths open. A sound he recognized caught his ear from down the hall, but he followed his brother out the back door.
    At the far end of a crudely constructed deck, three wood planks led down to an expanse of beautiful, pristine wild tallgrass, which opened to the base of South Boulder Peak. On the deck, an older man with a bare chest covered in white hair raised a hand. His head was shaved close, and he held the posture of a naval officer.
    â€œHey John, this is my brother.”
    â€œWelcome,” John said amicably as they shook hands. John’s grip was sure. “Enjoy round two,” he exclaimed, patting Caleb’s back.
    â€œHow far have you run