I didn’t want him to think I was staring, so I looked away, which means I don’t know how long he kept looking at me. He could’ve watched my entire walk down the street and seen me turn to check that my gate had closed, maybe he sensed my desire to look again and see if he was still there.

Now I could be calmly reading my book while I wait for the train. I was looking forward to that. I’d double-checked everything before I left—all the windows were closed, I locked the door and pulled the knob a couple times to make sure, I’d packed my rolling bag with everything I need—plane ticket, changes of clothes for three days, toothbrush, swimsuit, towel, sunscreen—and I left early to avoid rushing, because this was all about calm and relaxation.

The guy wasn’t my neighbor; I’d never seen him before. His clothes were dirty, but I can’t remember if they were light stains of house paint and concrete (from the construction a few doors down) or dark stains, possibly from homelessness.

His hair was longish and tousled. Maybe his clothes weren’t dirty, but his messy hair makes me think I saw stains.

I wish I could remember his face, but he spent half of the moment I looked at him tilting his head to spit, so in my memory his hair sort of becomes his face.

He was wearing a green shirt with an orange-brown jacket. Or it could’ve been an orange shirt with a green jacket. All I remember is that they were baggy on his body. But sitting on the ground bunches up a person’s shape—I don’t know if his clothes fit, if he was tall or short, or even whether he was wearing jeans or pants.

This isn’t enough information to ask anyone at the train station if they’ve seen him around.

The next train is in a half-hour. I could walk the ten minutes back home to see if he’s still there—get a better look at him if he is—and still make my plane.

*

None of the men at the work site look like him—not even my vague, subconscious memory of him. I try not to look too long, to avoid their suspicion.

And past the bend of the street there’s the neighbor’s driveway. He’s not there.

I check the fence at the corner of my lot, the one open space between the bushes. Some of the branches are dry and broken, but I’d squeezed through here myself last week to test whether someone could jump this part of the fence. My test proved that someone could, and now I can’t tell if these branches were broken by him or me.

I open my gate, eyeing the length of the fence to make sure nobody hops it as I step through, listen for swishing leaves or crunching gravel. Close the gate behind me. Listen again. Check my watch. I can make one sweep and still make the train.

If I leave my suitcase here and he comes this way, he could snatch my passport and phone before he jumps the fence. But the roller bag is noisy on the gravel, so I might not hear him leave.

Ultimately, I decide I’d prefer to keep my things and chase him off.

I drag the bag over long grass threaded with thin young brambles, to the more overgrown side of the house—where he’s most likely hidden. I don’t see him there, but he could’ve slipped to the back yard, so I push through tall nettles that bite my arms and face, which makes me even more confident he went this way. He probably assumed I wouldn’t brave it myself.

The back yard is empty. If he was here, he could’ve hopped the fence to either neighbor’s yard, or continued to the other side of the house. I listen. The neighbor behind me has her window open, sounds like she’s on the phone.

I cross, pulling the bag as quietly as I can across the grass to the other side of the house, where the path to the front is empty. The other neighbor’s yard is silent except for wind and birds.

I pull the bag to the front yard. Still nobody here. I check my watch—I’ve missed the next train. The next-next one is in twenty-five minutes. Plenty of time to catch it, but I’ll have to rush at the airport.

A layer of clouds uncovers the sun, and it’s warm.

If he’s still here, he expects me to give up and leave now. I turn around and walk quickly down the path, circling the house the other way to catch him off-guard. I hear nothing but my own footsteps on dirt and then grass, the bag rumbling behind me, swishing back through the nettles and re-emerging in the front yard.

Now he’ll stay hidden, because he thinks I’ve seen something that proves he’s here. I take the opportunity to go up the front steps and check the front door. Still closed, still locked, no sign of damage. Continue around, the kitchen window is also intact. As are the living room and dining room windows. I successfully dodge the nettles this time.

In the front yard I crouch and look for feet under the bushes. Then I take the path around the house, doing the same whenever new bushes come into view. I drop and scan the bushes around the back perimeter, see some fleshy trunks that could be legs, but no feet or shoes. No body lying in the space between the nettles and the fence. No one perched in the willow tree in the front yard.

The train is in seven minutes. I can’t make it even if I run. I’ll miss the plane.

But this is good—he thought I’d leave. He’ll try to escape at some point.

The sun is hot. I watch light and shadow flicker between the leaves as I pull the sunscreen from my bag and apply it to my forehead. Then I walk to the side path and apply some to my nose. In the back yard I put it on my cheeks and chin. Among the nettles I cover my neck and chest.

I unlock the front door and put my bag—now covered with dirt, pollen, and patches of clinging seeds—inside and lock the door.

Without the bag I can move easier, make quicker circles.

I jog.

I run.

I feint and switch back. He’s probably circling too, opposite me.

If only this goddamn house wasn’t blocking my view!

*

The first.

Arnold and the few other first-time losers were silent, lined up inside the curve of the elevated wooden racetrack painted white with red lanes. Down its length was an opalescent patina of dry slime in meandering streaks.

One shoe hung from Arnold’s fingers by its laces, his sweaty sock balled in its mouth. The floor was cool and rough under his bare foot and the pads of its five toes.

*

The guy next to me jabs my ribs with his elbow. He’s following number 3 or 27. But my 52 has stopped to curl and explore its shell, its number painted in blue. Against the push of the crowd, I won’t move until 52 moves.

*

The second.

The previous winners sat in cushioned risers. They all leaned forward, grinning when the race agent slipped his shears around Arnold’s second pinky toe.

The other losers behind him in line looked at the floor. But one man with six fingers folded his arms and watched.

*

Elbow guy shouts, “Come on! Go, go, go!” at whichever snail is his. He shouts so loud he coughs, with a mangled fist in front of his mouth.

When he coughs some of the snails jerk into their shells, a couple of them change course. Bettors scream.

I tell myself it’s a coincidence, avoid superstition. This guy has no more power over the race than anyone else.

*

The third.

They all watched as the race chief shook the winner’s hand and handed him a giant cardboard check.

Arnold imagined the heavy check pressing its edge into his own fingers.

A flashbulb timed perfectly with the thick snip of his bone.

*

Wesley or Leslie or something like that—I can’t remember—is still back at the starting box, punching the barrier wall and screaming at 95 to move. His face is hot and wet. He knows his chance of winning is slim now, but not zero. There’s still at least six hours to go.

I’m sure the winners in the risers love this guy’s desperation, watching his squeezed face through the binoculars they hold with precision-made articulated fingers. Clucking to each other with silicone servo tongues.

Their minds have erased the memory of ever having been him.

*

The fourth.

With the previous loss of one ring toe, Arnold’s balance had changed. But then losing the other restored his equilibrium.

*

Tom always promised if he won, he would never sit and jeer with the winners. “I wouldn’t do that to you fellas,” he said.

We all say that.

But we haven’t seen him since his win; he’s kept his promise.

If a day comes when we do see Tom in the risers we’ll lose all hope, because we’ll know that spiritual poison is inevitable, even for the most resolute.

*

The fifth.

It hurt Arnold to run with only two toes on his right foot. He had to stop.

*

Elbow guy is wearing a threadbare brick-red corduroy jacket. He’s jabbed me so much I start to think the jacket might’ve been brand-new at the start of the race, and he’s worn it down against my washboard ribs.

*

The sixth.

Arnold despised stairs. He bought a cheap plastic cane, and while using it he imagined the fancier cane he’d buy when he won. He’d use some of the winnings on replacement toes with fine titanium bones sheathed in padded silicone. TV said those were the most comfortable. He might spring for the “real skin” texture.

Even after adapting to the step of his new toes, he’d continue to use the fancy cane. He’d wield it like a trophy.

The cane would be real ivory with a spiral of gold inlay, topped with a polished sphere of green and white marble.

*

Elbow guy coughs again, and some bits spray out his fingers into my eye. It stings.

I stab him back with my elbow for room to rub my eye, and little crystalline grains come away stuck on my finger.

A guy with his head floating between our shoulders sees this and grabs elbow guy. “Cheat! Cheater, cheat!” he screams. He points at the track, where the snails nearest to us have again retracted into their shells. Number 79 is foaming.

*

The seventh.

Arnold bet on number 16 in honor of his son Ethan’s birthday. 16 placed second.

Tom’s won.

Tom didn’t look at Arnold, and was quiet as he left with the check under his arm.

*

Elbow guy struggles in the man’s grip. I grab his other arm, the elbow he kept putting in my ribs, to help hold him.

The crowd noise has changed.

A race agent in red and white stripes runs behind the barrier to us.

I hold elbow guy’s arm against the barrier, and the agent handcuffs his wrist to an iron ring. That’s when we all see that elbow guy’s palm is covered with crystalline grit.

*

The eighth.

Standing outside the arena at dawn on uneven achy feet, Arnold heard another bettor say the slime is thick enough for a snail to slide along a razor’s edge, unharmed.

*

Someone shouts, “Checkiz pockets!”

The agent reaches over the barrier into elbow guy’s jacket pocket and removes a baggie of salt.

With his other hand the agent wields a hatchet and swings it into the guy’s wrist, freeing him from the handcuffs with a hard, wet sound.

Cheers from above. Binocular eyes shine.

Cheers among us below.

I’ve got the guy’s blood in my eye, which stings a little less than the salt.

*

The ninth.

Arnold brought Ethan, who was finally old enough to attend a race. They both placed their bets on snail 31.

Ethan stared at the previous winners in the risers as his pinky toe was clipped. Seeing his son’s stoicism, Arnold wiped away a proud tear as the agent bandaged the fresh absence of his right big toe.

*

Elbow guy crumples holding his wrist, and the crowd closes around him to press against the barrier.

The agent waves the dripping hatchet like a flag of surrender while young trainee agents in smaller red-and-white-striped outfits pluck the snails from the track into buckets, and another brushes the salt from the track with a hand broom and dustpan.

The hatchet agent shouts, “The incident of malfeasance has been dealt with! Snail 79 has been injured! Bettors favoring snail 79 are disqualified!”

A few curses from the crowd, the sound of tickets ripping.

Number 79, foamy and puckered, is removed from the track and placed on the center podium, where an agent crushes it with a brick.

“We request your patience while the track is reset!”

79’s bettors are ushered from the arena. Elbow guy squeezes out through the crowd’s legs to find a medic. The rest of us wait and rub our foreheads and put hands on hips. Muttering.

The snails are put in the starting box. A trainee mists them with a spray bottle, and we cluster next to the gate.

In the tumult, my son appears at my side. Other bodies push me off-balance and my last toe strains to keep me up. I put an arm across my son’s shoulders, and he puts an arm across my back.

All hush. The gun fires, and the gate lifts.

52 starts to move.

*

The last.