A woman comes up behind me, takes off her sandals, and walks into the dojo. Same rig as Docker but with a brown belt, her hair yanked back into an elastic. “Hi, Docker,” she says, then smiles at me. Doesn’t even blink at my multicolored face.

“Brick, this is Michaela. Michaela, Brick MacAvoy.” She smiles again. Ordinary is how she looks.

Docker keeps talking. “Karate’s an ancient Japanese form of self-defense, Brick. You learn fundamental moves called kihon, series of moves called kata, and you learn how to spar, kumite.” He spells out these words as he goes. “The purpose is so you can defend yourself if you’re attacked.”

Defend myself against Floyd? You joke.

“It’s not a form of aggression. Ever.”

Is he warning me against perfecting my bullying skills? Does he even know I’m a bully?

“Once we’ve warmed up,” he says, “we’ll demonstrate a few blocks, punches, and kicks, and do the kata you’d learn as a white belt. Then we’ll spar.”

I stand with my back to the mirror while they do exercises to warm up. They’re both fit, I’ll give them that. Before they start any of the fancy stuff that begins with k, they bow to each other. Docker says, straight-faced, “You always show respect for your opponent.”

Me bowing to Floyd, that’d go over big.

Michaela punches, Docker blocks. Docker punches, Michaela blocks. Although the punches are so fast you can barely see them, and although slippery Brian Colpitts comes to mind, I figure the whole thing’s like a ritual. Preplanned.

They do the kata in unison, bare feet slapping the floor, fists snapping out at empty air. Twice they give this almighty yell, makes me just about jump out of my sweats.

Their faces are intent, the same way Floyd looks when he’s laying into me. I take a deep breath past the pain in my ribs. Wonder what would happen if Docker took on Floyd.

Docker says, “Now we’ll demonstrate free-sparring, jiyu kumite.”

He and Michaela bow again, he calls out something in Japanese, and they go at it. Fast, furious, focused. Blocks, elbow strikes, kicks high and low that are—I admit it—impressive, even though they all stop just short of contact. When she tumbles him over her shoulder to the floor, my eyes nearly pop out. She’s four inches shorter than him. He whirls on one foot and kicks her ear. She lands a punch to his chest as the side of his foot zaps her knee.

Everything happens so fast I’m breathless. When they stop, there’s an instant of perfect stillness before they bow and walk over to me. They’re sweating, both of them, chests heaving. For a split second I have this image of me dumping Floyd on the kitchen floor, standing over him with one of those victory yells.