Watching that little guy, seventy if he’s a day, breaking into a run, hopping zigzag through the padded pedestal chairs so he won’t be beaten out at the arrival gate, Harry remorsefully feels the bulk, two hundred thirty pounds the kindest scales say, that has enwrapped him at the age of fifty-fife like a set of blankets the decades have brought one by one. His doctor down here keeps telling him to cut out the beer and munchies and each night after brushing his teeth he vows to but in the sunshine of next day he’s hungry again, for anything salty and easy to chew. What did his old baseball coach, Marty Tothero, tell him toward the end of his life, about how when you get old you eat and eat and it’s never the right food? Sometimes Rabbit’s spirit feels as if it might faint from lugging all this body around. Little squeezy pains tease his ribs, reaching into his upper left arm. He has spells of feeling short of breath and mysteriously full in the chest, full of some pressing essence. When he was a kid and had growing pains he would be worried and the grownups around him laughed them off on his behalf; now he is unmistakably a grownup and must do his own laughing off.