Snyder McIsaac is poking around in the carry-bag. “Hey!” I shout.

Taking his time, he turns around, tucking his thumbs in his belt. His waist is as puffy as the bread dough at the bakery. “Lookit who’s here.”

He’s not quite as tall as me but he packs way more weight. On skates, he’s a slugger, known to fight dirty. I stick the prescription in my pocket, pulses drumming. He’s alone.

“Neat buzz cut, dude,” he says, and walks closer, flat-footed as a black duck.

My feet anchor themselves. I skip the bow. He jabs his fist at my face. My left forearm manages to deflect it, rising block, strictly amateur. My right elbow ploughs his ribs. My knee rams his thigh.

Hands in front of my face and shoulders hunched, I say, superpolite, “I’m glad you like it.”

Snyder lacks a sense of humor. He charges, both fists flying. I block one, miss the next—whump in the gut and I’m floundering. For a couple of seconds, I panic. He’ll crucify me.

Like the boxers Floyd watches on TV, I dance backward, to the left, to the right. He lumbers after me. Mouth a thin line, he aims for my belly, aims hard.

Downward block, gedan barai, then a reverse punch that— miracles of miracles—hits the target. He grunts in surprise and— I hope—pain.

I’m laughing inside and likely it shows. He surges forward, bashing at me, face, belly, wherever he thinks he can land one. I block half of them, dodge most of the rest, slam him with elbows and knees wherever there’s an opening. And once, just once, I land a punch that has power behind it, power from four days of building a rock wall and the prospect of twelve years stuck in Hilchey Bay with the likes of Snyder McIsaac.

Oh yeah, it’s pain this time.

My brain’s working top speed. He’s heavier than me, and his goons could show up anytime. He’s also off-balance. I plant my weight on one foot, lift the other knee, and kick to the side with vicious force. My heel thwacks his knee. Rotten form— good thing Docker isn’t here—but Snyder staggers, scrabbling at the air, then thuds to the pavement. That’s when I jump on the ATV. Key in the ignition and I roar out of there.

I’m still laughing inside, laughing like a mad fool.

I did it. I got the better of him. Was it respectful to kick him harder than was necessary? To inflict, let’s be honest, maximum pain? Probably not. Do I care? Definitely not.

I’ll have to watch my back from now on. Worth it, though.