A fraction of pressure.
Dylan's face tightened.
Walter released him immediately.
“Your shoulder is carrying too much weight.”
Dylan stared.
“What?”
“Your right shoulder.”
Walter tapped his own shoulder.
“You're compensating for something.”
Dylan's face hardened.
“My shoulder is fine.”
Walter looked at him.
“You injured it six months ago.”
Dylan froze.
“How do you know?”
“You favor it when you throw the hook.”
Dylan's expression changed.
“You've been watching me?”
Walter shrugged.
“I clean the gym.”
“You're a janitor.”
“Yes.”
“So how would you know?”
Walter looked down the empty hallway.
“People leave clues everywhere.”
Dylan followed his gaze.
“What does that mean?”
Walter picked up the bucket.
“It means you should ice it.”
Dylan stepped into his path.
“You think you know everything.”
“No.”
“You think you can beat me.”
“No.”
That answer surprised him.
Dylan narrowed his eyes.
Walter continued:
“I think you can beat most people who are willing to fight the way you want them to.”
Dylan smiled slowly.
“And you?”
Walter looked at him.
“I don't fight that way.”
Dylan's jaw tightened.
“Tomorrow.”
Walter said nothing.
“Tomorrow,” Dylan repeated. “Same place. Real spar.”
“I'll be working.”
“After your shift.”
Walter shook his head.
“No.”
Dylan laughed.
“Scared?”
Walter looked tired.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because you're angry.”
Dylan scoffed.
“You don't know me.”
Walter's eyes hardened.
“I know enough.”
He walked away.
Dylan watched him disappear around the corner.
For the first time in years, he felt something unfamiliar.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Something worse.
Curiosity.
What the Old Man Carried
Walter Bell went home at 7:40 that evening.
His apartment was small.
Second floor.
Old building.
Two rooms, a narrow kitchen, and a balcony overlooking a parking lot.
He placed his keys beside the door.
Then sat down.
His hands trembled again.
He looked at them.
The tremor had become worse during the last few years.
Age did that.
Time collected its debts.
Walter opened the bottom drawer of his kitchen cabinet.
Inside was an old wooden box.
He removed it.
For several minutes he simply stared at it.
Then he opened the lid.
Inside were photographs.
A younger Walter.
Much younger.
Twenty-eight.
Standing beside three men in black uniforms.
Another photograph.
Walter in a boxing gym.
Another.
Walter wearing a dark martial arts uniform.
A newspaper clipping.
A photograph of a competition medal.
And beneath everything else, a folded letter.
Walter did not touch the letter.
He closed the box.
The next morning, he went to work.
Marcus Vale arrived early.
He found Walter changing a lightbulb in the hallway.
“You're avoiding me.”
Walter looked down.
“Good morning.”
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend nothing happened.”
Walter climbed down from the ladder.
Marcus crossed his arms.
“Who taught you?”
Walter sighed.
“That question usually comes before breakfast.”
“I saw your stance.”
Walter smiled faintly.
“I'm old.”
“You're not that old.”
“That's kind.”
“You were trained.”
Walter looked away.
Marcus waited.
Finally, Walter said:
“A long time ago.”
“Military?”
Walter nodded once.
Marcus's expression sharpened.
“How long?”
“Long enough.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
Marcus laughed.
“You know, most old guys would love someone to ask about their glory days.”
Walter shook his head.
“Those weren't glory days.”
The smile disappeared from Marcus's face.
Walter looked toward the gym.
“Fighting was my job once.”
“Professional?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
Walter picked up the ladder.
“Something more complicated.”
Marcus followed him.
“Dylan's going to challenge you again.”
“I know.”
“You should say no.”
“I will.”
Marcus stopped.
“Will you?”
Walter looked at him.
“No.”
Marcus sighed.
“You know what happens if you beat him?”
Walter smiled.
“I don't intend to beat him.”
“Then what do you intend?”
Walter looked toward the empty demonstration mat.
“To teach him something.”
“What?”
Walter's expression became distant.
“That winning isn't the same thing as knowing how to fight.”
The Challenge
Dylan returned the next evening.
This time, there were no cameras.
No charity crowd.
No speeches.
Just twenty people from the gym.
Dylan had invited them.
He wanted witnesses.
Walter finished cleaning the locker room and found the group waiting near the mat.
Dylan stood in the center.
“Five minutes.”
Walter shook his head.
“No.”
“Three.”
“No.”
“Two.”
Walter sighed.
“You're wasting everyone's time.”
Dylan smiled.
“Then prove me wrong.”
The coach, Aaron Pierce, stepped forward.
“Dylan.”
Dylan ignored him.
“Come on, old man.”
Walter looked around.
Everyone was watching.
Some were amused.
Some curious.