The morning bit with a November edge, crisp enough to haze over the sports fields was more breath than fog, pooling in idle clouds above the trampled upon grass. Joseph Garcia arrived earlier than everyone but the groundskeepers, alone in the charged quiet, the drill field raw with dew and tireless birdsong. The sky was a layered bruise, blue fighting off the last streaks of dawns purples, and every bench and chain-link shadow looked sharper, more exacting, than in the gentler hours.
