I sat on a bench and looked at the cell phone that Sill had placed in my house. I suspected it would ring or chime or buzz at some point. I didn’t know if Sill knew I was in Washington, didn’t know if Clinton knew where I was. I was not completely certain I knew. Two men approached me. I stood.

“What are you doing on our bench?” the wider of the two asked.

“I was sitting,” I said. “Now that I know it’s yours, I’ll be leaving it.” I started to walk away, but the other man stepped in front of me.

“This is our sidewalk,” he said.

“Wow, you guys must be rich,” I said.

They looked at each other and the wide one said, “Oh, you got jokes.”

“Give me your phone,” the other said.

“I need it,” I told him.

The wide one looked up and down the canal. “We need it more.”

“I hardly think so,” I said. “And how would one quantify and measure something abstract like need? I imagine it would be possible with something like food or medicine, but pencils, phones, or guitars, I don’t know.”

“I think there’s something wrong with him,” the narrow one said. “I’m pretty sure there’s something wrong with him.”

“I want your dog,” the wide one said. “The phone and your dog and we won’t beat the shit out of you.”

I looked at them and tried to quantify as much as I could. The wide one seemed to be the leader. He was a couple of inches shorter than the other but had positioned himself slightly closer to me. His hands were relaxed and open while the other’s left hand was clenched. He was standing on a slope, his stance narrow, his left foot about ten centimeters lower than his right, enough that his locked right knee had him listing about fifteen degrees.

“The phone and the dog,” he repeated.

Trigo barked.

I recalled the anatomy books I had read. I pulled back my right foot and swung it with all my force toward the tibialis anterior muscle of his left leg. I sought to sink my toe deeply enough into his muscle that I might impress his peroneal nerve. He was duly impressed and he collapsed, rolled down the hill into the canal. The narrow one, now alone, backed away a step, reassessed me, then came forward again. His right hand was pulled back to strike me and so his left shoulder presented itself rather fully. With the knuckles of my right hand I struck him in his brachial plexus. His right hand detoured to cover his left shoulder and I kicked him in his mid right thigh, finding, it appeared, his sciatic nerve. He rolled down the hill, knocked his partner back into the water.

Trigo and I walked quickly back toward where I had parked.

“Impressive,” someone said from the brush.

I stopped.

It was Sill. He was dressed in all black and I could hardly see him. “I had no idea you were capable of defending yourself,” he said.