The Bodies We Wear Read Online Free Page A

back to sleep.

    In the morning we train.
    I wake about a minute before my alarm is set to go off. Years of early-morning practice have given my body an internal clock. I never sleep in and I never take days off. Even on Sundays, when Gazer says I should take a break, I still rise before the sun and head down into the bowels of the church to practice.
    Death never takes a day off. Why should I?
    I get dressed quickly, ignoring the dampness that tugs at my bones, and find my running shoes hidden under a pile of books. Pulling my hair up under a baseball cap, I head downstairs and into the kitchen. It’s not really a kitchen, just a makeshift room that has a small Coleman stove and a refrigerator that clanks and rattles and always sounds like it’s about to take its last breath.
    I grab a quick drink of water and then head out the door. The rain instantly hits my face, but it’s not enough to slow me down.
    I hate running. I hate the burn in my calves and the way the sweat stings my eyes. I don’t like the way my lungs feel, like they’re about to collapse after a few miles. But Gazer says I need to do it because it keeps my body in good shape, and doing something I hate builds character. He also says that running is spiritual and clears my mind, leaving me in full control of my body. Once I learn to master my body, I can truly learn to master the fighting skills I require.
    Gazer believes me when I say I want to let sleeping dogs lie.
    “Revenge is not a worthwhile dream,” he agrees. “The man who spends his life focused on retribution often misses his own true calling.”
    That would be fine if I wanted to live a long and worthwhile life. But someone like me can’t have the wants and dreams of others. Someone like me is cursed, forced to spend her life sitting on the sidelines, only wishing she could play the game. Free will only works as well as the hand you’re dealt.
    I hear the sirens before I smell the smoke. The fire truck zooms past me and I watch without slowing down. When it turns the corner, I know I should go straight and finish my run. But instead I follow it, heading down toward the water, where the older storefronts are.
    The fire is raging out of control, sending thick black smoke straight up and into the gray rain clouds. The building used to be a grocery store, owned by a nice Asian man and his wife. They used to live in the back but now they’re standing on the street, their arms wrapped around their children, who are all barefoot and in their pajamas.
    I wonder who they pissed off.
    I approach them carefully, holding my hand up against my face to try to block some of the heat. “Did everyone get out?”
    The man’s wife starts talking in Cantonese, pointless because I can’t understand her. The man tries to calm her down, but she starts pulling away from him and gestures toward the building.
    Someone is coming out.
    A figure emerges from the smoke and flames, a child in his arms. A hero. A few onlookers cheer and the firemen rush over and grab the child from his arms. The child is whisked away, along with his incoherent parents and other siblings. They load the child and the mother in the back of the ambulance. The father and two other children stay behind for questioning.
    Then the firemen turn to the hero of the morning. They try to pull him back toward the ambulance but he shakes them away.
    He’s the guy from last night. The one who acted like he’d never felt his own hair before.
    Chael.
    When he looks up, he sees me. Lips turn up a bit in a half smile. He winks.
    It’s short-lived. The firemen aren’t taking no for an answer. They grab him by the arms, talking to him about smoke inhalation and possible lung damage. They need to take him to the hospital just to make sure. They pull him past me and he winks again. There’s a smudge of soot on the bridge of his nose.
    The police finally take over and start pushing the crowd back. I allow them to steer me across the street, where I can