Joe put his right foot forward as if he were a left-hand boxer. “Your right hand is low. Better. Let me see you move.” He hung out a lazy, openhanded jab to see Shapiro’s reaction. “Don’t move that way. Duck and move to your left. Keep the right up. Again. Now hook with your left.” Shapiro bored in, hands pumping like a maddened milkmaid. Joe put out another slowmotion jab. “Duck, move and hook.” He caught Shapiro’s hook on the arm. The moss was springy, dappled by sun that broke through the willow.

“You think I have a chance, Chief?”

“Let’s see.”

Joe shot a right jab at more speed and slapped Shapiro’s chin. Reflexively, the MP moved to his right and into a slap from Joe’s left hand. He slipped a couple of Shapiro’s jabs, then slapped Shapiro’s chin and cheek again. As soon as he saw anything coming his way, Shapiro locked into his old habit, moving counterclockwise into another slap. Joe blocked two hooks, ducked a jab and slapped Shapiro again. The MP’s right cheek turned from blue to stinging pink.

“Forget it.” Joe grabbed Shapiro’s wrists.

“Forget it?” Shapiro’s muscles bulged with frustration.

“You can’t win. Sorry.”

“Help me.”

“How many rounds is it?”

“Six.”

“Kid’s an amateur, basically. He’s probably never fought longer than three rounds. I hear he knocks everyone in two.”

“Swell.”

“That means if you get to the fourth round, this kid is punched out. You can count to four? Good. So don’t move left, don’t move right, don’t move back because you’re not fast enough. Just move in. You’ll get hit on the way in, but you can take it. Then you wrestle. Catch my arm, come on. Lean on it, yank it, that wears down the shoulders. Keep moving in.” Joe backed away, slipping to one side and then the other. “Three rounds is nine minutes. If you wrestle him for eight of those minutes, he’s only killing you for one. When you grab him, don’t butt. You’ve got scar tissue like me. You’ll cut before he does. Move in, move in.” Joe was disgusted with himself because he was enjoying the trickle of sweat down his ribs, the concentration, the peripheral dance of boxing. Ducking a branch, slipping a jab. When Shapiro stood still, Joe waved him in again. “You dumb palooka, move.”

Shapiro looked over Joe’s shoulder. He turned and saw someone standing outside the shade of the willow. He had to squint because she was so dark against the sun.

“Klaus is climbing a mountain,” she said. “It was boring watching him climb a mountain, so I left.”