Royal

I told Rach I'm drawn to the apex in any field and agnostic about which field that is. I'm bored by the middle. People who've gone the distance carry an added dimension—robber barons and innovators, special forces and lawyers who actually win, the ones carved by the river all the way to the ocean.

Royal is one of those. She has nothing to prove, which frees up all the proving energy other people spend. She pours it into love. She'll talk about disappointing her grandkids with a humility that almost hurts. She doesn't try to look cool; she is cool. She reminds me of my friend Ed, a lifelong Zen teacher whose goal is simply "to be a pretty good Ed," and then he tears up. Those are the real ones.

But 5:30 this evening, no one shows. I tell Rach, "We started the walks; it's not our job to chase anyone. But it is our job to hold the frequency." We lap the gym alone for fifteen minutes…and then, like an alarm across the dorm, the walkers begin drifting in.

Chen arrives first and joins me and Rach. Royal and Janiya, her "granddaughter," come in shortly after. They do a few loops and puppy-bright Janiya gets distracted and peels off, leaving Royal solo. I can see her angling back to the dorm. She walks for the company.

I wave our little gaggle—Rach, me, and Chen—over to her. She turns toward Rach first. Then Rach and Chen fall back and it's Royal and me, stride for stride. We're both big planets: warm to everyone, cautious with each other, orbiting to see if the other is actually paying attention.

Royal is a storyteller, and she has stories. A full-on OG from the eighties and nineties. Out on the track, she talks the way some women pray—somewhat to me, mostly to God, the rest to herself.

"I always wanted to be a lawyer," she says. "First grade. Teacher go around the room, everybody saying nurse, ballerina. I said, 'Lawyer.' I wanted that briefcase. I wanted to walk in the room and know more than everybody else." Her voice is matter-of-fact, like she's reciting a file she knows by heart.