It’s 6:14 a.m. on a late-summer day, and the track at Florida Atlantic University is shrouded in darkness, save for the faint beams of light bouncing from the waistbands of three joggers, dutifully logging their steps before the world awakens. They move at a casual pace, thoroughly oblivious to the athletic marvel in their midst.
“I can clock 60,” boasts a voice in the darkness, and then he’s gone—a hulking silhouette slicing through the predawn shadows.
“They ain’t ready for you!” barks another voice. “They ain’t ready for you!”
