“I want you to do a series of stepping punches, oi-zuki. So far we’ve practiced No Contact—stopping the punch just short of the opponent’s body. Today I want you to hit me.” He positions his arms in front of his chest. “These are shock absorbers, so you can’t hurt me. But I need to know how much power you’re putting into your punches.”

I don’t want to do this.

“Yoi-dachi,” he says.

Every muscle in my body has seized up. I put my feet apart, shake my shoulders, try to sink into readiness.

“Three stepping punches, kiai on the third. Oi-zuki.”

My fist stops short of the black vinyl. I’m shivering.

“Oi-zuki.”

Same thing. Big fat zero. You’re so dumb, kiddo ... wonder how you say that in Japanese.

“Oi-zuki!”

Doesn’t this guy know when to quit? My front foot slaps the floor, I rotate my fist, and maybe he shifted the vinyl nearer, I don’t know, but my fist hits it, thwack.

I don’t stop to think. Knees together. Step. Slap my foot. Rotate my fist. Punch. Thwack.

Knees together. Step. Slap. Rotate. Punch. Thwack.

We’re moving fast the length of the room. He looks calm, focused.

I gotta quit this. Now.

Step. Slap. Rotate. Punch. Power behind my fist. His face unchanged, like nothing’s happening.

Step. Punch with all the force I’m capable of. Step. Punch, punch, punch and all I’m hitting is the goddamn vinyl, my whole body behind every stroke—but I can’t reach him because he’s blocking me.

Fury floods my brain. Breath sobs in my lungs. I’ll kill the bastard, I’ll kill him, I can’t hang in for twelve years, I’ll kill him ...

Pain judders through my shoulder with each punch. Fists on fire. But I can’t stop, nothing will stop me until he’s dead. Every beating he ever laid on me, every bruise, every black eye and humiliation power my fists, shrill from brain to knuckle punchpunchpunchpunchpunch.

He won’t fall down. The sonofabitch won’t fall down.

I lean my weight on him, jabbing him, kicking, kneeing, but I’m slowing down because I hurt all over, and someone’s swearing, a string of obscenities in a voice I don’t recognize, a voice that’s nothing to do with me.

Then this same guy starts sobbing, great gasps heaving from his gut, rasping up his throat. He slides to the floor in a heap, sounds coming out of him, animal sounds.

A man kneels beside me. I curl around myself, quick, in case he kicks me, wrapping my arms around my head.

A howl bursts out from deep in my belly—a howl into the night from a dog that’s lost and hungry.

A howl louder than any kiai.