I’m going for distance, not speed I keep reminding myself. The familiar smell of hot jam is back, making each gulping breath taste sickly sweet. All about my feet lay rotting fruits, strange jungle fruits waiting to trip me if I step on them wrong. I had a funny thought today. As I ran through the jungle toward Naked Man Beach I remembered the dance party my friend Greg and I had on the night of our high school graduation. It was just us, dancing to the Hair soundtrack, bobbing and weaving and clapping Greg’s fast rhythmic clap. I smiled broadly as I dodged the scurrying land-crabs, the thousands of faintly yellow and purple land crabs, and I thought they might be dancing too. Bobbing and weaving and snapping a clacking-clack.