Our neighborhood is a small one. It's four-fifths of a mile and laid out in the shape of an oval.
A few roads deviate from the main street, with some branching off into a number of cul-de-sacs and others sloping down steep hills. From my house, it starts off easy, completely flat except for a few slightly slanted sidewalks. It carries on for a couple yards, then smooths off into a curve. A few more yards and there's a hill. By far not the steepest one in our neighborhood, but steep enough to make my legs cramped and breathing ragged. Then the hill slopes, winding down a rounded path to the entrance of our community. To the left is a small parking lot, the pavilion, a tennis court, a walk leading to the playground and a white, metal gate to the pool. Instead of turning in to cut across the playground, I continue running around a curve. My feet pound on the newly installed concrete, making a left turn and keeping the main road to my right, running up a short distance and then finding myself once again on a straight path leading back to my house. I pass a large crack in the pavement that serves as a finish line. But in my mind, it doesn't materialize until another and another and yet another completed lap.

I run this course until I'm short of breath and my legs threaten to give out. I run until I forget all the complicated thoughts I started with. I admit, though, that at night, when everything is dark--aside from the orange glow of street lamps scattered in sparse intervals and the bright beams of light flashing from headlights of the occasional car--I run half (well, maybe more than half) scared. I am not afforded the luxury to remember the sixty-seven I received that day or the stresses of accumulating exams. Never good with ghost or horror stories, I run through the dark with thoughts of urban legends and getting snatched off the relatively safe sidewalks of our neighborhood, quietly praying that I won't be accosted by the creatures of my imagination.

But I'm able to complete my run, as I'm comforted between these brief stretches of anxiety by the appearance of my nightly community. Neighbors I've never spoken to before feel closer than ever and it seems as though we’ve known each other for years. We are familiar with one another from our similarly timed outings and distinguish the gaits and frequented circuits of one person from that of another. One man walks his dog along the first street, several times back and forth, letting his companion lead the way. Another man walks alone, dressed snugly even on the warmest of nights. A middle-aged couple often walks counterclockwise from the entrance of our neighborhood and converses pleasantly as they walk up the long side of the hill. Another dog owner, a woman who's often on her phone, walks her white terrier up from the bottom of the hill. And just as they reach the peak, a soft-spoken couple walks up to the main street from one of the lower cul-de-sacs . From the familiarity of everyone's course and pace, I can expect to see each person a certain distance from their starting points. As I run past the solitary stroller, I count down in my head, ten, nine, eight... just seven more feet until I see the woman with her dog. And then just a few minutes later I know I'll see both sets of couples, one just a few feet behind the other. No words are needed, for every single glance is a silent, exchanged greeting and every nod is a friendly acknowledgment. Seeing each member of our nightly travels go about such familiar routes and routine sights lets me run in comfort and makes the night less bleak.

Though nameless to one another and faceless in daylight, we share a mutual understanding: one of silent greetings, an occasional head nod and many potential conversations. We are a night community.