The night before the World Cup, and the waiting is its own kind of work. Tomorrow I cross into Tijuana to watch the opening match in Mexico with my grandmother, which is the part I keep returning to; the football is the occasion, but she is the reason. The day’s last task is the driving marathon, with only two and a half hours left to log out of twenty-four. I usually save the journaling for the end, but the hours are running thin, so I write this now from the exercise bike with a Korean lesson open beside me. Some days you finish the list. Tonight I am simply trying to reach the start of something better.