I prance away, elbow back, fist folded. Because he’s angry and not thinking straight, he follows, aiming for my stomach again. Knife-hand block, then I snap out another punch. As my fist drives into his chest, a noise comes all the way from my gut.

Kiai.

He staggers. I skip to the side and kick him in the shin. Snap my foot back, watch him stagger some more.

Front stance, move in, elbow-strike to his chin, another to his ribs, stomp on his foot, and, kiai. Sweat’s pouring down his forehead. What’ll I do if he has a heart attack?

Fury and frustration bite into his face. I risk looking into his eyes. Mistake. Murder, pure and simple.

I spring back again, away from the shade, my whole body on high alert. Move in so he slashes at me. Block, dance back, dance away.

And I keep this up. Relentless. Ruthless. The point of my elbow spears his Adam’s apple. Side of my foot to his kneecap. Knees, elbows, kicks, again and again, and always on the move.

“Come on, Floyd—you’re not going to let your stupid son beat you at your own game. Hit me, Floyd. Hit me.”

He bellows in rage, charges me—but I’m not there, I’m somewhere else, knees bent, body low, adrenaline ripping through my veins.

“What’s up, Floyd? Can’t take the heat? That’s a pun, did you get it?”

He’s panting like a dog, like Wilbur used to pant when I was fetching him water. Before Floyd shot him.

Floyd’s shirt is glued to his chest. I taunt him, play with him some more—his game of cat and baby bird except now I’m the cat and he’s the bird, and I’m loving every minute of it.

Seek perfection of character ... Docker wouldn’t be loving this.

For a split second, I falter. Floyd lurches toward me, his chest unguarded, open.

I go cold. Finish it, Brick.

Two good punches would knock him flat. Two punches, each fueled by a lifetime of humiliation.

I bounce sideways. He follows me—his eyes manic, glued to mine. I retreat, feigning fear. He makes this sound, roar of a crippled lion, doesn’t see the two logs until his toe stubs them. He flails at the air, topples. Thud of his knees on the hard ground. Rasp of his breath.

He tries to push himself up on his elbows. Collapses.

I stand over him, sweat dripping down my face. “Maybe I’m not so dumb after all, Floyd. Maybe I’m a hell of a lot smarter than you.”

He’s huddled over, groaning. I turn away, take four or five steps toward the trees, and heave up my breakfast. Breakfast, supper last night, every meal I ever ate, until my throat feels raw. I did it. I beat him at his own game.