1

Heather never ran, back home. She had done field hockey and volleyball in high school, but never took it further than that. Maybe Zumba or pilates on occasion. But when she moved abroad to do a funded PhD with Dr. Prof. Hendriks, it seemed the right time to join the millennial post-30 diaspora and download the Strava app.

Plus, Germany was beautiful in the fall. Old buildings and cobblestone and red squirrels. Rolling fields and vineyards. And if Heather was being honest, which she always tried to be with herself at least, the isolation and silence of doing a European humanities PhD overwhelmed her. There were no workshops or mandatory courses like back home, no guided check-ins on a concrete timeline because the university had money at stake. No, her and Dr. Prof. Hendriks’ funding came externally and with one condition: be done in three years.

So that first month after moving to Heidelberg and setting up, she had done what she always wanted to do during her previous studies: real studying. Not in a college way, as if to cram for an exam, but more in exploration, with free reign to dive as deeply and thoroughly into the minutiae of her discipline as she pleased. Then, some day in middle-November, after a particularly rough voyage through Habermas’ The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, Heather realized she had not spoken to anyone for going on five days. And even that had only been the jovial young woman behind the counter at her nearest bakery (Clara, her name was). So looking out her window toward the Neckar river and sipping her fifth mug of Kräutertee, Heather vowed to change some things before it was too late. She would talk to Clara the rosy-cheeked baker with the wholesome smile, and she would find ways to get the hell out of her two-room apartment.

So she ran. And you know what? She started making friends, too. Clara was as sweet as she looked and offered to help Heather with her German, or even just to hang out after a shift and eat the leftover Quarktaschen Heather loved. And one weekend in late November, Clara told Heather to meet her at Max Bar near the Holy-Spirit Church, where she then introduced Heather to Ferdi, a PhD candidate from Turkey. Within a week, Heather and Ferdi were going on runs together and talking about Foucault.

The holidays were wonderful like this. Baked goods and German lessons and runs and philosophy. And going into the new year Heather felt this whole experience would be everything she had hoped for, and more. Her ex, Jeremy, had accused her of running away. But on her daily jogs along the Neckar and into the neighboring farmland, Heather felt like she was running to something. Like she was finally on the path to her most beautiful future.

2

The meeting with Dr. Prof. Hendriks did not go well.

“We are literary theorists,” he said, “which means there needs to be at least some literature involved. What you have so far about Jack London is great, but we need more. He should not be a launchpad for discussing theory. They must be co-determinate and inform each other equally. But your writing is superb, and it’s quite impressive the amount you’ve done in only three months. Keep it up.”

Heather thought about these words repeatedly during her evening run. It was late January now, and the sun appeared for seconds at a time like dying embers in a forgotten campfire. The rest of the time, Heidelberg was covered in blankets of rolling fog. Heather ran one of her usual loops around the Volkspark on the river, where if the sun did flicker into existence, she would be open to its measly rays. About halfway through her loop was when she finally admitted to herself that Dr. Prof. Hendriks’ feedback wasn’t that bad. But she had still hoped the meeting would go better, and she was beginning to worry that maybe she wanted to be a theorist, rather than a literary theorist. Still, she supposed it was better to be a paid literary theorist in Europe than an indebted theorist in the United States. Then she hit shoulders with someone.

In one movement Heather stopped, removed her wired earbuds, turned back toward the body she had made contact with, and said, “entschuldigung! Sorry!”

But the other runner kept going. He was a thin, middle-aged man with a shaved head and pale skin. Heather could see, even from behind him, that he was grimacing. Well, she could understand that; her first three weeks running had been one elongated grimace, she was pretty sure. Best of luck to the gentleman. Also, she was happy not to engage in stilted German while her brain was in run-mode.

So she finished up her run as the sun went down and she looked out to the river. Ferdi had told her that if she wanted, she could follow it north all the way to Cologne, one straight shot. She didn’t plan on it, of course, but it was a nice thought that so many people were looking upon the same flow of water. She never had that back home. Then she wondered what she would do if Ferdi tried to kiss her in the next weeks or months. She wasn’t anticipating it or hoping it would happen, but she was amused that her first instinct was not to reject the idea outright. She smiled to herself and thought, don’t be bad just yet, and then she heard running footsteps approaching.

In the half-light of the hidden and setting sun, and through a barrel of spinning fog, the same pale figure emerged. He was now running in the opposite direction and blowing plumes of frosty air as he approached. Heather put up an arm to wave at him and apologize again, or maybe to root him on, but as he got closer her words jammed in her throat. He ran under the nearest path light and she saw his eyes, wide and bloodshot, looking at nothing. His mouth agape in a downward-facing grimace that leaked drool to his chin. Then, as Heather backed away from the path, his eyes flicked toward her. Just for a moment, but unmistakable. Then they looked dumbly forward and he ran into the night.

3

Heidelberg was a compact little city given its population of over 160,000. This meant that Heather only needed to jog a block or two before there were more lights, and even more people. She was safe, of course, but why exactly did she feel the need to feel safe? She had seen runners at the end of 12-mile gauntlets that looked objectively worse than that pale man had. But it was the eyes. They didn’t look in pain or embarrassed or even determined. They looked like they had no connection whatsoever to the actions of the body they inhabited. And the rigidity of that permanent grimace… She had to stop thinking about it. Just a strange man, and probably one with special needs or something. Stop being an asshole.

Heather stepped into a Rewe on the way home to pick up some groceries. She adored the tri-weekly grocery culture, picking up a few items here and there, planning a couple meals at most. She couldn’t wait until summer, when these little errands would hit maximum charm-levels. The cashier scanned her muesli, blueberries, and box of Kräutertee bags, and Heather said the famous expat refrain, “mit karte bitte” and scanned away. Then she saw something glide by the store entrance. When she took her paper bag with groceries outside, her heart leapt in her throat when the pale man jogged by, again. He did not slow down or turn toward her, but his eyes did. One reptilian flick, a disembodied side-eye lasting less than a second, and then he was gone. Heather wanted to scream but pushed it down.

She had seen him three times in what, 15 minutes? And all within a few blocks? She didn’t know his route, nor his mental or facial issues. She was being a Panicky-Karen-American-Asshole.

The world does not revolve around you. He’s just a man running in his own city.

But why would he run back and forth in front of the same store? That was definitely him, right? He ran by, then I walked out, and he ran by again.

No, he didn’t. It was too dark to know what that first thing was. Could have been anyone. Now let it go, and get home.

And so she did. But once her tram got moving, she could not shake the feeling that beyond her reflection in the pitch-black window, a figure was still running towards her.

4

After her dinner (which consisted of muesli and blueberries, and a hot cup of Kräutertee), Heather felt a little better. But when Ferdi called to invite her to Max Bar, she was still hesitant.

“Wait, hold on,” he said, “you think he was following you?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think so. It’s just…” She thought about when his eyes flicked to her as he ran by, the drool sticking to his bald chin and staining his windbreaker. “It was just creepy, I guess. Probably nothing.”

“Probably,” he repeated, “but I am happy to pick you up and walk into the city together.” His dark features always made him look statuesque on Facetime, and Heather had a flash of a thought that maybe she did want Ferdi to make a move, after all.

“That would be great. Sorry, if it’s-”

“Sorry? No sorries about something like this, come on. It isn’t right that you should feel unsafe. I’m happy to do it.”

She blushed and said, “I feel like an idiot.”

“Only when you try to convince me that Žižek isn’t a serious thinker.”

“I never said that! I said his accent isn’t serious, and also… that everything he says is a joke.”

“There it is!” They laughed and he continued, “when should I be there? Nine?”

“Perfect.” She felt better now, after hearing his reassurances and with a new plan. He would pick her up. She would wear a nicer (sexier?) outfit than the occasion required, and Ferdi would pick her up. She could almost hear the sound of his footsteps running to her door.

She went cold.

Ferdi started, “great, then I’ll-”

“Wait,” she interrupted him, “just wait one second. Please stay on the line.”

“Of course. Heather, are you okay?”

“I hear something. Running.”

“Okay… Can you see who it is? People do run at ni-”

“Shh, it’s getting closer. Let me look through my window. Don’t hang up.”

“I won’t.”

She crossed from her kitchen to her living room/bedroom and opened the window by her small desk. Terrified, she looked down the street. The pale figure emerged into lamplight.

“Oh my god. It’s him!”

“Are you positive?”

“Oh my god. Ferdi, what do I do?”

“How long ago did you see him last? Maybe he lives near you.”

“That was two hours ago! Oh my god. Do I call the police?”

“I’m leaving now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Do I call them?”

“Yes, call them. 1-1-2. He could be training for a marathon or something but better to be safe. Tell them your address right away and say the rest in English if your German fails you. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

The pale man did not slow down nor turn toward Heather when he ran past her apartment building. She could not see what he did with his eyes.

“Don’t fucking come back!” she screamed into the night air. She didn’t care if she was wrong, or if she was being an idiot or an asshole. It suddenly felt much later than 7:30 p.m. and she was very scared.

When the runner turned the next corner at the end of the block and disappeared, Heather called the police.

5

Heather’s street was flashing blue when Ferdi arrived. She was in the middle of trying to explain the situation to two policemen outside.

“Er war ein Renner, oder ein Läufer, ich weiss nicht was du sagst. Er war… fuck! He was following me, okay? He kept running by me, and then hours later he ran down this street, right here in front of my apartment.”

“Hi,” Ferdi said as he walked up. “I’m her friend. She called me just before she called you guys.”

One of the officers asked, “can you describe this man, please?” and Heather felt like an idiot again.

“Yes. Middle aged, white. Bald or shaved head. He was wearing a gray windbreaker over other stuff I couldn’t see, he was wearing black shorts. He looked… deranged. You know what deranged means?”

“Yes.”

Ferdi looked away in semi-embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” Heather continued, “I’m sorry. I’m just freaking out a little bit. I hate that this man knows where I live.”

“We will find him, don’t worry. One more question we have to ask because of the lawsuits; have you ever used, or are you currently using Lucidity Pete software?”

“What? I don’t know what that is.” She turned to Ferdi who also shrugged and shook his head.

“So, no?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

The other police officer then took the notebook the first one had been writing in and talked into his radio:

“Hallo Leitstelle, bitte geben Sie eine Fahndungsmeldung nach allen Hinweisen zu einem weißen Mann mittleren Alters mit rasiertem Kopf heraus. Er trägt eine graue Windjacke und schwarze Shorts. Der Verdächtige wird wegen Stalkings eines amerikanischen Studenten gesucht.”

A woman on the other end of the radio responded but Heather stopped listening. “Thank you both,” she said over the garbled chatter.

“It’s no problem. The last thing we want is our students being harassed.” He turned to Ferdi. “You said you are her boyfriend? You sleep here tonight and keep watch in case we don’t find him. We will do a patrol now.”

Heather went beet-red.

Ferdi said, “sure, no problem, thank you,” and shook the officer’s hand.

“You have to leave?” Heather beseeched the officer, “couldn’t you stay here in case he comes around again?”

“We will station a car here later. For now it’s better to patrol. Your description is very good. If he is still out, we will find him. It is still possible this is a misunderstanding, in any case.”

Heather hoped he was right about that last part. She even knew that, logically, there was good reason to believe it. But she didn’t. Something deeper told her this was no misunderstanding.

“Expect someone here in a few hours to check up,” the officer continued. “In the meantime, Heidelberg is a safe city. Stay with your man at home if you want, or go have a beer. Just stay together or in public. Loosen the nerves, or?”

The officers got into their car and left.

“So, what do you think?” Ferdi asked into the new silence.

“Huh?”

“Stay here? Or get beer?”

Heather looked both ways up and down her street. “Oh, I don’t know. Being in a crowded bar does sound comforting. Is that stupid?”

“Of course not, it makes sense. Besides, I’m here now. I promise you I’ve dealt with more dangerous men in Antalya. Come on, you could use a drink.”

6

The tram-and-walk to Max Bar was not without paranoia, but by the time the two hefeweizen and two raki-and-waters were placed onto the table, Heather was beginning to feel foolish again. Although, she still could not keep herself from looking through the front windows and assessing the situation. To her satisfaction, the market square was well-lit and reasonably crowded for a Thursday evening.

“Şerefe,” Ferdi said, making eye contact with Heather and clinking his raki glass against hers.

They drank, but she kept her eyes on the front windows.

“Forget about out there,” he went on, “people know us here, we’re more than safe. I’ll fuck him up myself if I need to.”

Heather smiled. “You? In a fight? I’d need to see it to believe it.”

“Here, look at this,” and Ferdi began rolling up his long-sleeve on the right arm.

Heather realized she had only seen him in the cold months, and therefore had never seen his arms, or any other part of his body, for that matter. She did not hate getting a glimpse just now.

Ferdi rolled up the sleeve to his elbow and revealed a long scar along his inner forearm. “Don’t worry,” he said, “this was not self-harm. This was ‘Türk mafyası.’ Turkish mafia.”

Heather smiled again, waiting for a grin from Ferdi that never came. She stopped smiling and said, “oh my god, you’re serious?”

“I am very serious. The MHP, the nationalist party in my country, had taken some control in Antalya. Through coincidence I became friends with the son of one of these politicians. The son’s name was Osman. We rode bicycles around, and fucked with tourists, mostly. Then one day I noticed the money in my sock drawer was gone after he left my house. I had probably been saving it for four years.”

“Oh, shit.” Though the topic was serious, Heather was delighted to be so invested in Ferdi’s story. For these fleeting moments, she felt normal again.

“Yes, so I confronted him. And, well, there was a fight, which you would have certainly believed if you had seen.”

“And he gave you that scar?”

“Not quite. I really don’t want to sound braggadocious-”

“Nice word.”

“Thank you. But basically I beat the shit out of him. He was quite small, actually, it was very easy.”

They both laughed. Heather said “my god! And you got your money back?”

“Well, yes and no. The day I beat him, I had my money back, yes. But as I told you, his father was quite powerful, and it turned out that that power was not only political. The MHP has had a long history of mafia association. So, the next week, I turned a corner on my bicycle and all of a sudden I was facedown in the road and two men began dragging me into a near alley.”

Heather gasped but did not dare interrupt.

Ferdi continued, “to my surprise, Osman was waiting in that alley, smiling. I remember it well because although the alley itself was dark, I could still see a sliver of ocean in the far distance. It was a strange contradiction which I have come to believe about all of Antalya, and perhaps all of Turkey. The beauty and the darkness often don’t bother to hide from one another.”

He took two good gulps of his hefeweizen and went on. “Well, I knew I had fucked up, and now I just needed to learn how bad. When I saw Osman pull out a box cutter, I assumed the worst. I started yelling and kicking and calling him a son of a bitch, and then I started crying. Osman really liked that. His smile then was beyond pleasure. He told the men to hold me up and he approached me with the blade pointing to my throat.”

It was so wrong to be thinking things like this in that moment, but Heather realized all her coy thoughts were now obliterated and she would be insisting that Ferdi sleep over tonight, as the officer had suggested. She thought she might insist on sharing the bed, too. For safety.

“I can’t believe this is all true,” she said, feeling dumb as she said it.

“Neither can I, but here is the kicker. I believe Osman’s sadism had already been a topic for his father, something to be addressed lest it get too out of hand. Suddenly one of the men nodded at the other and seized upon Osman, holding his arms behind his back as he screamed. The other man let me go and said, ‘he stole from you, yes? And you beat him? A fair punishment. He would have you killed for that, but his father thinks two lessons can be taught in one day. Now, hit him in the face.’

“Naturally, I was stunned, but what could I do? I hit Osman in the face as hard as I could and he spat blood. The man said, ‘good. Here is how things stand. You just hit him without provocation. And he tried to kill you in direct disobeyance of his father and of our code. So now, you both must die.’”

“What?” Heather all but screamed.

Ferdi smirked and said, “hey, I’m alive to tell the tale, right? They sat me and Osman next to each other and sliced up each of our arms with the cutter. We both thought it was over, crying in each other’s blood, begging for our mothers. Then after two minutes the men began laughing. It was a prank. A dangerous one, but a prank nonetheless. The cuts had barely gone beyond the first layer of skin, a couple veins only. No arteries. They patched us up, beat me a bit more for good measure, and dropped me off at home. Needless to say I never spoke to Osman again.”

“Ferdi, that’s…”

“Insane?”

“Well, yeah.”

“That’s Antalya. I still love my city, though, and my country. So, what do you think?”

“About Turkey?”

“About my fighting abilities, should they be needed.”

The weight of the situation fell on her. She looked again to the front windows of Max Bar.

Ferdi took her hand. “Hey, it was just a joke, I’m sorry. We are safe. You want to know what I think? I think this is just a man in some trouble, who needs some help. I don’t think any of it is about following you, or anyone. I think the man is sick.”

“My brain is too cloudy,” she replied. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Drink your hefeweizen. They tell me it is the ancient German cure for brain fog. Clara is also on the way, with your delicious, stale Quarktaschen. That should help.”

From their tiny table against the back wall, Heather feigned a smile and drank her beer. She looked through Max Bar, out onto the market square and up to Heidelberg Castle. She could just see its lowest walls lit up by giant fixtures. Flashes of blue entered from below and she wondered if some kind of lightshow was starting.

Then the screaming began.

Ferdi shot up out of his seat as dozens in the bar shrieked. There was a police car in the market square, lights flashing, burning rubber and driving out of control. The car broke free from a spin and careened away from the church and toward Heather, Ferdi, and the row of bars and cafes.

“Get into the corner” Ferdi said. “We can’t get out of here in time, anyway. Prepare to jump if it crashes through in our direction.”

Somebody yelled, “an die Mauern!” and people leapt from their tables to reach the far walls and booths.

Heather turned to Ferdi and asked, “Do you think it’s-”

“It can’t be,” he answered flatly, breathing fast.

The car exploded into Max Bar, its engine sounding like an enraged god screaming into hell. Ferdi grabbed Heather and dove with her along the sidewall as the vehicle crashed into the back wall and came to a stop. The tires and engine kept screaming as Ferdi approached the drivers’ side door.

The figure inside rocked back and forth violently as Ferdi screamed above the cacophony, “stell den Motor ab! Mach die Tür auf!”

The driver twisted and rocked and tried snatching his keys from the ignition three times before finally grabbing them and squeezing them so tightly that blood dripped from his fist. The rest of his body rocked as he finally twisted the keys and threw them to the side. The tires stopped spinning and the engine stopped screaming.

“Mach die Tür auf!” Ferdi repeated.

Heather stepped closer and saw that the officer in the vehicle was the same one she had spoken to at her apartment. “Ferdi, something is wrong with him.”

“I know. We must help him.”

Anhelina the bartender was on the phone, undoubtedly with emergency services. Heather had a strange feeling tickle the side of her face and neck and she looked back to the market square, where a crowd was forming outside of the exploded facade.

The officer yelled from within the vehicle, “nicht näher! Komm nicht näher! Mein Gott, geh weit weg!” as his body throttled into itself and heaved upon the wheel and dashboard.

Ferdi yelled something in return but Heather could not hear what it was. She was busy looking beyond the crowd to the empty square.

One shape moved there. A pale figure, its arms behind its back, running in large circles. Saliva spilled from its chin.

Then more glass exploded and Heather turned to see Ferdi reach into the now shattered and open window of the police car.

“Neinnnnnnnnnn!” the officer screamed as Ferdi reached around to unbuckle the seatbelt. The officer’s eyes were wide open and bloodshot, and his mouth was forming a downward facing grimace. Ferdi pulled him from the car.

As soon as the officer’s foot touched the ground his body convulsed in a violent swing that should have broken his back. His head whipped side to side, dousing the room with his saliva. He landed backwards, kicking out desperately, and his boot made contact with Ferdi’s chest. There was a loud snap as Ferdi went flying onto the crunched-up hood of the car.

7

Someone yelled, “lass ihn nicht gehen!” as the officer sprinted with terrifying speed through the bar and out into the street. Ambulances and squad cars arrived en masse.

Heather went to Ferdi. Before she could ask if he was alright, she heard the way he was breathing and saw his chest concave.

“Someone help us! He needs an ambulance!” and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Ferdi, what the fuck is happening?”

“I think my rib is broken,” he croaked.

EMTs yelled from behind her, “macht Platz! Wir müssen durch!” and marched through the bar with a gurney. They loaded Ferdi onto it and brought him outside, Heather right behind.

“Can I come with him?” she asked one of the EMTs as they prepared to hoist Ferdi into the ambulance.

One asked the other, “sie möchte wissen, ob sie mit ihm mitfahren darf?”

“Heute Abend viel zu viele fucking seltsame Anrufe. Wir können sie nicht mitnehmen.”

“I’m sorry,” the first one replied again, in English. “We may have to pick up others on the way. You can join him at hospital.”

“Hilfe! Hilfe!” a man running through the central path was screaming. He did not slow down or look anywhere but straight ahead as he ran along the shops, past the ambulance and through the market square, howling for help all the while.

“Wir gehen jetzt!” the second EMT commanded.

Heather rushed to Ferdi’s side and put a hand on his face. “I’ll see you soon,” she said.

“No,” he answered. “Get home. I don’t like this. Something is happening.”

She kissed him, and he kissed her back. Then the EMTs loaded him up, closed the doors, and sped off.

Then she looked around. More people along the shops were sitting down with hands on their fidgeting legs. Shrieks of terror and anger came and went as more bodies sprinted through the streets.

“Mike? Mike, what the fuck are you doing? Stop!” A young woman chased her partner down the next cobblestone alleyway and disappeared.

Then there was a herd of footsteps. Dozens or even hundreds. A mass of people appeared at the top of the street. They were all running. When they stampeded through the market square, Heather did not move. She only watched them run by, many of them barely dressed, overdressed, or not dressed at all. Running shoes, high heels, loafers, barefoot. They all ran with wide open, bloodshot eyes. Heather’s heart sank when she spotted Clara in the mass, running in her baker’s apron and clenching a white paper bag with Quarktaschen.

“Clara!” she screamed, but Clara did not look back.

A helicopter whirled above the city in and out of the nightly fog.

When the mass of runners was gone, leaving only the pale figure to do his loops in front of the church, arms handcuffed behind his back, Heather went after him.

8

The runner stopped his loops and ran away from Heather as she approached.

“Hey!” she yelled, more tears in her eyes. “What the fuck are you!”

He was slower than he had been three hours ago. And Heather had a feeling he had already been running a lot longer than that. By the time he reached the Neckar river, Heather caught up to him.

The water was in turns engulfed in fog and diffused with orange, incandescent light. The air was wet with mist and the helicopter rolled over them once more and disappeared. They ran along the very same path on which they had first met.

Heather ran at the pale man’s side and asked again, “what are you? What’s happening?”

His drool leaked onto his windbreaker and dripped onto the ground. A long, arduous rasp came from his throat. Then he spoke at a whisper: “I don’t know.”

“Did you cause this? Why were you following me?”

His eyes flicked to her again in that reptilian side-eye which Heather now realized must take extraordinary effort on his part. And probably a lot of pain. The man started limping as he ran.

“I…” he whispered. “I had to keep going. But I… I didn’t want to be alone.” Then he ran off the path and tumbled over the railing into the river.

“Wait!” Heather cried, and she saw that the man was thrashing even as he continued to sink. She stopped and watched. The night was silent now except for the helicopter in the distance. She decided to take Ferdi’s advice and get home as soon as possible.

So she continued to run along the river. The cool breeze calmed her as her heart settled and deep breaths propelled her forward. Heather thought about Ferdi and their kiss. She hoped he was okay, and believed he would be. She thought about that feeling again, that she was on the path to her most beautiful future. But as she approached the turnoff to get home, a new idea emerged. Maybe this future was not some reward to be obtained at a different time. Maybe the feeling that one would attain it, was already it. Maybe it was these deep breaths that felt cool and powerful in her chest. Maybe it was the miracle of movement at all.

Heather ran along the river and thought, with some amusement, that maybe she would just keep on going.