18
Justin took one look around his twentieth-floor room of the Marriott with a view out over the Brooklyn Bridge. If he sat in here, he’d go mad. So he went downstairs and bought shorts, a t-shirt, and decent running shoes because he couldn’t wait for his duffel to show up.
He thought about going for a run in the city, but Brooklyn was so damn crowded he didn’t know where to begin. The deep Somali desert, Ramon Airbase in Israel, Tripoli—those he understood. New York was like a city gone mad. Vertical. So many people crowded in that he couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
Finally he went to the hotel’s fitness center and hit one of the treadmill machines. It was mid-morning and he owned the place. Everyone else was off to their business meetings or whatever.
He started running fast. At on
