He abandoned his bag, moved to the other side of mine, and steadied it. Sweat streamed down his temples to match the sweat that soaked the front of my shirt. “Come on,” he said while I punched. “You can go harder than that. Harder. Why you holding back? You afraid of this thing?”

Every word spurred me on to whale harder and harder, my gloves meeting the bag in a frenzy of whumps, until my arms were noodles and my breath was ripping out of me. I sagged against the bag, leaning my temple against it. My hands were just above his, our faces inches apart.

“Wow,” he said. “That was great.”

“Your turn.”

He shook his head. “I’m good. Don’t want to overextend myself. Got to keep the energy up for chasing bad guys.”

“Speaking of.” I shook off one glove and wiped my forehead with the back of that hand, my breath slowing down but still labored. “You remembered something?”

He nodded, excited. His eyes were on fire, blazing at me. He leaned harder into the bag; I could feel his breath on my face. “A community center.”

I waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, I raised my eyebrows. “That’s it? A community center?”

“Not just a community center,” he said. “The Waller Recreational Center.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, the breath coming at me so lightly it gave me the shivers. I felt goose bumps ripple up and down my arms, grapes and wine. “Address 15332 Dozier.”

The numbers lit up in my mind when he said them. A five and two threes, just like I’d said. I straightened. “Heriberto Abana?”

He shrugged, straightening too. “I don’t know. Maybe. All I know is it’s sure interesting that I remember being at that building and you remembered an address with those numbers in it. More than a coincidence, right? Has to be.”

He had no idea how much more. I wasn’t just remembering those numbers; I had seen them. My brain had remembered them, flashes of white and purple blinking off his computer screen, even when I wasn’t trying to see them. Even when I didn’t know I had.

“Way more,” I said. “So now what?”

He pulled off one glove and tucked it into his armpit while he removed the other, then began unwinding his wraps as he walked back toward the bench. I bent to pick up the glove I’d dropped and followed him, my arms aching and too noodly to take off my other glove. I let my gloved hand dangle between my knees when I sat down.

“So I guess I visit the Waller Recreational Center,” he said. He stuffed his equipment back into his bag.

“You mean we visit the Waller Recreational Center,” I corrected.