The building was in a greater state of disrepair than Gene’s, and an air of dilapidation hung over the entire neighborhood. Flattened beer cans lined the curb while sheets of newspaper and plastic bags were wrapped around parking meters and telephone poles; an abandoned warehouse with busted windows stood across the street. A dog barked from somewhere unseen.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“I’m okay. Kind of nervous. Are you?”

“Nah,” I lied.

Carolyn took a deep breath as we marched up the stairs. We entered the living room of the third-floor apartment. It was small and dimly lit; dirty sheets hung over the windows. Silence. I relaxed a little. Hustler magazines covered the top of the coffee table along with dirty dishes, empty beer bottles, an ashtray full of cigarette butts.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Get the TV. I’ll gather my clothes in the bedroom.”

I unplugged the television, lifted it off the table, set it beside the door. It was caked with dust, as were most of the other surfaces. The walls were bare. There was broken glass against one of them and what remained of the thrown bottle was on the floor below it. Then a sudden burst of yelling came from the bedroom.

“Where the fuck are you going?” a man’s voice roared.

He held her tightly by the shoulders when I entered.

“I’d let her go if I were you,” I said.

“Yeah? And who the hell are you?”

I was instantly sickened by the look of him. He was scrawny, his face covered in acne scars and the beginnings of a pencil mustache that looked more like dirt than hair. He wore a white tee that fell nearly to his knees, a gold chain around his neck, a tattoo of a snake wrapped around his right forearm. Large ears and closely cropped hair dyed blond. Was this really who Carolyn had spent the last two years of her life with, this piece of trash? And why did it piss me off so badly? For a split second I felt I deserved better than somebody who’d be with him. But then seeing his hands on Carolyn made me quickly shrug that thought away. He had hit her the night before, and I feared he’d hit her again. We had come to get her things and that is exactly what we’d do.

He stared at me. The anger he emitted was an obvious attempt to cover fear, and recognizing it allowed me to settle into a role I knew well, that of the favorite, which is what I was for nearly every match in the last two years of my wrestling career. The one expected to win.