A breezy 5M this morning. The sun stays trapped behind a thick, impenetrable layer of clouds. I am sliding into a crisp, cotton sheets, chilled after leaving the windows open on a rainy afternoon, I think. The miles are easy and forgettable. I spot the long narrow acorns scattered across the pavement and for a moment, I can see God—an older man with a black robe and thick black glasses, like the kind Daddy used to wear when we were little—tossing the little brown grenades onto my path as if capering inside the mad fringe of dementia. I folded up my favorite blue Nike long sleeve tee the night before and set it on my nightstand, together with my sports bra and shorts. It’s been cooler in the mornings here, in the low 50s. But I end up wrapping the shirt around my waist less than a mile in. I can map out how to dress for a run down to the degree in Chicago, but SoCal continues to confound me with the quality of its cold, an aloofness that guards a warmth refusing to give quarter to fall...