The side street down which I walk in my Brooklyn neighborhood is quiet, the brownstones on either side still dark with twilight. Later, their windows will be warm and softly lit.
Now, however, it's so quiet that I can hear the blood singing in my ears, and the footsteps of someone, from the sound of it, a drunk, running, catching up with me.
A young boy, twelve or thirteen from the looks of it, flops by, his shoes slapping the slate sidewalk in haphazard rhythm, looking far too young to be "jogging" but, from his t-shirt and sweatpants, appearing to be doing just that, however inexpertly.
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