The rising block, age-uke, is harder. Fists, arms, chest, hips, knees, and feet, they’re all involved and you want them to work together, smooth and fast. Because I’m curious, I try soto-uke, the outside block, which protects your stomach instead of your head. For stomach, read solar plexus.

Sitting under the trees, I read the first chapter of the book. The name of the old guy in the photo at the dojo is Gichin Funakoshi; he founded Shotokan karate, the kind Docker teaches.

Summer is interminable. Is that why I’m doing this?

At seven thirty, Cassie’s bedtime, she cleans her teeth, darts across the hall, and shuts the door in my face.

6.2 [nothing succeeds like success]

EVEN THOUGH Floyd did his thing yesterday, which means he should leave me alone the next couple of weeks, AQ is sky-high when I wake up the next morning. What’s going on?

He’s on Saturday shift again, so I don’t get up until he’s gone. Cassie’s still in her room. No, it did not hurt my feelings that she wouldn’t let me kiss her good night. I pull on my sweats and head outdoors.

Time for a new graph.

Horizontal axis: endorphins

Vertical axis: AQ

Result: a 45° downward slope. Down is good.

As I reach the end of the driveway, Glenn is walking across the bridge away from our place, Igor on his long blue leash. Everything I normally keep tamped down and under control erupts to the surface. Graphs and downward slopes, what use are they? Action is what I need.

I jog toward them. When Glenn catches sight of me, he winds the leash around his left wrist and positions his feet in a piss-poor imitation of front stance. Igor skitters away, tail curled between his legs, until the leash goes taut.

“You’re a real jerk, Glenn,” I say. “You don’t even have the sense to run—and you’re supposed to be smart. Don’t you understand you’re just begging for it?”

“If I’m a jerk, at least I’m a jerk with friends,” Glenn says and jabs with his free fist.

But somehow my left arm blocks his and the jab hits air. I aim a stepping punch at his chest. He ducks, so it skids off his shoulder. Grunting, he tries to punch me again. No trouble to get his arm behind his back, pull up on it, and keep pulling.

His face convulses. Although he’s gritting his teeth, the groans are escaping anyway. I could let go. I don’t. Instead, I keep lifting until his toes are barely touching the ground, more and more of his weight on his shoulder.

What if I dislocate it? X-ray, surgery, rehab, who gives a shit.