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Saifullah ran, and then he ran faster.
He ran beneath the September sun approaching its zenith in the sky, away from the Humanities courses that everyone else seemed to be walking towards. Off the pavement and over the dirt he ran, before turning and running into a tunnel beneath the highway which formed the dawnside edge of campus.
Saifullah emerged from the tunnel’s darkness and the short shadow formed by its highway ceiling, and continued on his way to the apartment complex across one street and down another, albeit at a slower pace now that he was in sight of his goal. Through a parking lot and up a series of steps he went, before emerging onto a shaded landing affording a view of the Flatirons.
The running man walked through the front door of apartment 312 without knocking, and scowled at his three roommates slumped into a ratted couch in front of a TV. The three were eating half-wrapped mayo hamburgers as they watched the latest installment of “All My Children,” and none looked up as Saifullah shut the door and marched to the television set.
“What is wrong with you?” Saifullah now stood, hands-on-hips, before the darkened screen.
“What is wrong with you?” Hamza gesticulated wildly with both his free and his hamburgered hand, hitting each of Saifullah’s two other roommates in the head. “We were watching that!”
“And eating hamburgers and not running,” Saifullah replied calmly over crossed arms. “The marathon is in sixty-six days. Do you or do you not want to run it?”
“We don’t want to run it!” Nur replied. “It’s like that Jew Woody Allen says: ‘Eighty percent of life is just showing up’!” Nur was gesturing at the darkened television set, as if one of the “Jew”’s films was playing in the background, unseen and unheard.