After three feet I regretted it. After five I hated myself intensely. After ten I knew I had made the biggest mistake of my life.

But again a third party saved the day.

I have already noted my olfactory percipience? I can affirm that my other senses scarcely score less well on Janus’s comps. My sense of smell, obviously, is nearly unchartable, and therefore my taste scores are enviable. Visual acuity tests out above “fighter pilot.” And auditory—well, modesty prohibits me from elaborating. Suffice to say that from nearly fifty feet away, with my back turned, and even with the ambient noise of the street—revving engines, tires abrading the asphalt, the plaintive bleating of a truck’s reverse-siren—I overhead several aggressive voices overlapping Charlie’s. Petitions for money were made, rejected. Imprecations were issued and footsteps accelerated in a way I knew, without turning around, indicated that the owners of the voices were now following her. Charlie iterated that she had nothing, which provoked more jeers and denunciation. And then the clincher.

From my position, nearly around the corner, with the vociferation of afternoon Manhattan thrumming in my ears, I heard Charlie say, “Hey, get your hands off me!”

Before I knew what I was doing I had wheeled around and saw Charlie surrounded by a crowd of guys. I was outnumbered 3:1 and outweighed by about 5:1. But they were openly pawing Charlie. They had pushed her into a hedge of blooming honeysuckle. One of them pinioned her arms while a second yanked her purse off her shoulder and a third made lewd clasping gestures with his hand near the opening of her dress. It was broad daylight. It was unbelievable.

Also unbelievable: I was now streaking toward them, full speed ahead, fists clenched in a businesslike way.

Even by my standards of visual acuity what ensued was a blur. I fell upon them and started flailing. The only punching I had ever done was in my aerobic kickboxing class, and the instructor’s loudspeaker beat-counting was so firmly embedded in my psyche that I swung away at Charlie’s assailants while counting out loud.

“And a-one!” as I threw a sinking cross.

“And a-two!” while looping a hard hook.

“And a-three!” when I scooped an uppercut.

When I stopped momentarily after my first onslaught— “And breathe, two three four”—I realized there was no need for another; all three attackers had been literally floored. They lay scattered about the pavement like spare change, emitting noises of remorse and surrender.

I guess I didn’t know my own strength.

With a shaky hand I pulled Charlie to her feet. With a Parkinsonian quiver I returned her purse. Her dress was torn and her shoulder was bare. Her hair was garlanded with wands of honeysuckle and nectar. Again I smelled the flowers and grass, the rosemary and mint. Again I detected the leather of her shoes and fresh sweat. And when she leaned into me, face upturned, adrenalized and frightened and wild, clutching my collar and pulling me down, pressing her beautiful mouth to mine, I realized I had been right: