Page 60 of Night Shift

By the time I reach the bay, the yoga crowd is already at full capacity.

No one wants to miss this.

Not after last week.

Petra is, to no one’s surprise, front and center. She is dressed in outrageously neon Lycra, blind to the concept of shame, with a butterfly bandage over one eyebrow and her left knee wrapped in enough compression tape to stabilize a midsized bridge.

Beside her, Mrs. Garcia is herding three goats who, rumor has it, now attend yoga regularly as part of their recovery.

Mrs. Garcia herself appears completely unharmed.

Naturally.

I snake through the crowd as Petra leads everyone into Sun Salutations, despite the fact that she can only bend one knee and every third movement produces an audible geological complaint.

The crowd moves together beneath the morning sky.

No moon.

No stars.

No eternal darkness.

Just sunlight.

I find Petra during Warrior Two.

“You’re crying.”

She glares at me.

“No, I’m not. It’s sweat.”

“Your sweat is coming out of your tear ducts?”

“Shut up, Calliope.”

She holds the pose, trembling slightly, refusing to acknowledge the tear rolling down her cheek.

Around us, the entire town seems to breathe at once.

People tilt their faces toward the sun. A few openly cry. Even the goats look confused by it.

On impulse, I drop into a lunge beside Petra.

She looks at me.

I look at her.

Then she sticks out her tongue.

I laugh.

Somewhere behind us, a kid yells, “I CAN’T FEEL MY FACE!”

Someone’s grandmother answers, “That’s enlightenment, honey.”

By the time the session ends, the applause is riotous.