“She does. Jane.” Josh immediately pictured a tall, strong white woman in her forties, chiseled and hard and militant—a shredded Tilda Swinton. They went into the waiting room, which sported worn blue carpeting, a counter and a line of chairs. Windows showed the larger room with a padded floor, where classes were obviously taught. Freestanding punching bags, kicking shields and myriad other supplies stood neatly on the far side.

“Hello!” cried a woman. She was so tiny he hadn’t seen her behind the desk, and he jumped. She was white-haired—sixties? Seventies?—and wore a black uniform with a black belt around her plump waist. Japanese, with a slight accent. “You must be Joshua Park. Welcome! And hello, dear Sarah!” She stood up, not quite five feet tall, he guessed. Four foot ten and a half. Being an engineer made him good at estimating these things.

“Sensei, this is my friend, Josh. Josh, this is Sensei Jane Tanaka.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, towering over her. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis, poor thing.

“Have you ever done martial arts before, Josh?”

“No, ma’am. I have a punching bag at home, but . . . no.”

“That’s okay! We are all beginners at some point. So! We’ll do a little karate together, and you can decide if you want to become a martial artist.”

It did sound cool. Joshua Park, martial artist.

“Sign this waiver, please. It says you won’t sue me if you get injured.”

Josh obeyed.

“Now. Come into the dojo. Take off your shoes, then bow to the flag”—a large American flag was tacked to one wall—“and bow to me, your sensei.”

He obeyed. The padded floor felt comfortable under his feet, and the room smelled not unpleasantly of sweat and bleach.

“What do you know about karate, Josh?”

“Very little,” he said. “It’s a Japanese martial art, thousands of years old.”

“That’s right. Great for exercise, self-defense, discipline. Now, stand here, left foot forward, hip distance apart, weight evenly balanced. Fists up, like so. This is fighting stance.”

He imitated her, already feeling like a badass. This was the same as boxing, which Ben had taught him so long ago.

“Wonderful,” she said, smiling. She looked like the epitome of a sweet grandmother. “Let’s do a little demonstration, okay?”

“Sure,” Josh said, smiling a little. It would be cute to watch her do some moves. He hoped she wouldn’t strain anything, or hurt her hands by breaking a board or whatever it was you did in karate class.

“Okay, Josh. Try to punch me in the face.”

Josh flinched. “Excuse me?”

“Punch me in the face.”

“No, thank you,” Josh said, glancing at Sarah, who had her phone out, filming.

“Joshua. I’m your sensei. I gave you an order.”

“I was not brought up to hit my elders.”

“And you shouldn’t, unless they tell you to. Come on. Try to hit me.”