I am telling myself, Squeaky you must win. The pistol shot explodes in my blood and I am off, flying past the other runners. My arms pump up and down, and the whole world is quiet except for the crunch of gravel in the track. On the other side of the fence is Raymond with his arms down to his side and the palms tucked up behind him, running in his very own style. It’s the first time I ever saw that and I almost stop to watch my brother on his first run. But the white ribbon is bouncing toward me. I tear past it, racing into the distance till my feet start digging up footfuls of dirt and brake me short. Then all the kids standing on the side pile on me, banging me on the back and slapping my head with their May Day programs, for I have won again.

“In the first place …” the man on the loudspeaker pauses and the loudspeaker starts to whine. Then static. Here comes Gretchen walking back, for she’s overshot the finish line, too. Huffing and puffing with her hands on her hips, breathing in steady time like a real pro. I sort of like her a little for the first time. “In first place …” Then I hear Raymond yanking at the fence to call me and I wave to shush him. He keeps rattling the fence like a gorilla in a cage. But then like a dancer he starts climbing up nice and easy but very fast. And it occurs to me that Raymond would make a very fine runner. Doesn’t he always keep up with me on my trots? And he surely knows how to breathe in counts of seven. He’s always doing it at the dinner table. And I’m smiling to beat the band cause I can always retire as a runner and begin a whole new career as a coach with Raymond as my champion.