Husky

His doctor says, "This is getting serious." His doctor says, "You've got to get more exercise. Your heart needs it. It needs its exercise." He says, "Go for swims. Go for hikes. It doesn't help that you work from home. Get a standing desk. Take walks around the living room between stints at the computer."

So Charles drives to the city pool on the next day, clocking himself out in the late morning. He eases in and swims a bit, then tires and clings to the wall before moving on again. Young kids bob here and there, floaties on their biceps, too young, apparently, to be in school, but old enough to mouth "whale" while he struggles down his swim lane. He knows kids piss in pools. He knows he's never coming back. He's cold, cold even though that little one mouths "blubber" while pointing at him as if he's in a picture book.

Charles sleeps that off, stops by his mom's nursing home in the morning, surprises her with cranberry muffins and checkers. She says, "A muffin from my muffin." He beams, says, "Thanks, Mom." They eat and play. They stand for a stroll. She leaves her walker by the table and chairs. She leans on him as they saunter the grounds, circling the hedge path and admiring the spring blooms of the Weeping Cherries and Bradford Pears. She clings to his arm and takes little steps. Her hands are like talons. Her skin is like damp paper over bones. She smacks her lips. She says, "Aren't I the lucky gal to have this fellow at my side." He gets her back to her walker, kisses her forehead, tucks the checkers set under his arm. He says he'll be back in a few days for his regular weekend visit. Then he returns to work at home, answering e-mails, opening clients' documents, editing, formatting, sending them back. His doctor's voice echoes, "Getting serious. Heart needs it."

In the dark morning Charles wakes and starts work at his computer. He clocks himself out at 10 am. He's stiff when he stands. He walks a few laps around his living room, but he feels ridiculous. He's overweight—not ninety, not frail. He pulls out his phone and thinks about searching standing desks, but instead he searches hiking near me. Then Sycamore Canyon pops up, and one Yelp user has written, A mild hike, and another has written, Scenic. Good for beginners.

Charles drives the few miles to the nearest entrance and parks in a little public lot. He passes through the gate and begins to walk the outer loop, avoiding the narrower paths that go down into the canyon. The outer loop is flat. There is green everywhere because of recent rains, but now in the late morning it's getting hot. Charles is sweating. His legs are sore. Fifteen minutes in he's surprised to see a row of backyards only a stone's throw from the public path. The backyards share a long cinderblock fence, but it's not that high. They all have pools. They are empty. He goes off path and walks through the brush. He approaches a house with solar panels on its roof and towering hedges on each side of its backyard, shielding the yard from its neighbors. The fence separating the yard from the canyon is shorter than he is. He rests his elbows on its warm top, his chest leaning into the sun-warmed cinder-blocks. He says to himself, You've got nothing to lose. He answers himself back, You're right, I don't. He presses his palms down on the top of the fence and attempts to hoist himself up, but he doesn't budge. There's no way he can climb it now, but there was a day when he could, and not that long ago either. "Forget this," he says aloud. Over the fence, the water gleams. The sun is hot. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the canyon air. Whatever it is, he's determined, daring even...