Davis was gasping as he pounded up the pavement at the end of his eight-mile run. Going on a run was not unusual for Davis – the length of the run and what he was wearing was. He had on a pair of black Underarmour compression shorts, a black and orange pair of Adidas trainers and a sleeveless orange and black compression vest. He had on nothing else except his iPod, which was docked in a holder on his right bicep. Today’s run had been a good one, so he’d done eight rather than five miles. It felt like he was floating along, so he had cranked the music up and ran around oblivious to the stares of the public, who got an extremely good view of the bulge barely hidden by his shorts.
As he approached his house he saw someone stepping away from his doorstep. He pulled out his ear-buds. “Hey there – can I help you with something?”
The man turned and Davis recognised him, though he wasn’t totally sure from where. It was a 6-foot tall young black man – maybe in his late 20s. He was wearing a tight pair of leather jeans, boots and a white wife-beater vest under a leather jacket. His hair was neatly trimmed and he was clean-shaven.