He takes his mouth from the flute. “Igor owns me.”

“Can you play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?’”

He obliges, jazzing it up some. Then he slips into the Sesame Street theme, her clapping her hands to the beat.

I say, “I didn’t know you came down here to play your flute.”

“I never used to, in case it ended up in the river. Accidentally.”

Ouch. Direct hit. So does he feel safe now? “I like the tune you were playing.” It was haunting, melancholy, like a slow-moving stream.

“‘Komorebi’ ... Sunlight Shining through the Trees,” he says.

“That’s Japanese!”

“Popularized by James Galway. If I could play the flute like him, I’d be one happy dude.”

Glenn already is a happy dude. “Practice helps,” I say, as if I know what I’m talking about.

“According to my dad, 10,000 hours.”

I do the math in my head. 10,000 hours ÷ 12 years = 833 hours/year. Or approximately 2 hours/day. Is that enough to become a 10th Dan black belt?

Will Glenn ever smile for real around me? Weird how much I’d like that.

Or am I after forgiveness? Forgiveness is considerably more complicated than a smile.

11.3 [Sensei (teacher)]

WHEN I arrive for my next lesson, the dojo is empty. Sometimes Docker gets held up if there’s heavy-duty garbage along his route. The old guy in the photo gazes at me—I swear he’s not as disapproving as he used to be. I take off my shoes and bow at him.

My guts are on the jitter, my head aches, and my eyes are burning from lack of sleep. The bruise on my cheek is a mix of mauve and yellow. I start to warm up, jogging on the spot, swinging my arms, then doing jumping jacks, knee-raises, punches, and more punches.

If I can’t sleep, when will I ever be ready?

Docker comes in wearing his gi with its frayed black belt. He’s carrying some equipment which he piles on the floor. His eyes flick to the bruise and flick away. “I’ve already warmed up,” he says and bows to me.

Automatically I bow back. He barks a command. “Ready stance, yoi-dachi!”

My feet go shoulder-width apart, fists at hip height.

“Left downward block, gedan barai. Right reverse punch, gyaku-zuki. Gedan barai. Gyaku-zuki. Rising block, age-uke. Gyaku-zuki. Outside block, soto-uke. Gyaku-zuki. Yoi-dachi.”

I’m hard-pressed to keep up, even though I’ve been practicing. He slows down a bit, and we go through it again. Then again, faster.

He picks up two fair-sized pads covered in black vinyl and a couple of inches thick, slipping his hands through the elasticized handles on the back.