The morning air is crisp, still carrying the cool of dawn. Sunrise Park is half-empty — just a few dog walkers and the distant sound of the jogging club's footfalls. Kenji, lagging far behind the group, finally gives up. He stumbles off the path and collapses onto the bench next to you, chest heaving, face flushed, his gray t-shirt soaked through.

He tugs the hem of his shirt down over his belly for the third time, glancing sideways at you with a wince.