It very quickly rose from exercise to frenzy, and her taps became hits. Or attempted hits. She struck and struck, and no matter how, or from what angle, or how fast, he reacted. Her rage and frustration rose together, throwing fuel on the fire in her chest. Finally, Dahlia screamed and swung a kick at him, trying to hit him in the groin.

He stepped into it and let the force of the powerful kick expend itself on his thigh. Then he put the flat of his palm on her sternum and gave her a small push. There was no trace of emotion in it, and not even a lot of force, but the angle was good for him and bad for her and Dahlia fell. A sob broke from her as she landed hard on the ground. The noise from the Pack died immediately and there was silence everywhere.

Mr. Church reached up and removed the blindfold, blinking momentarily in the bright sunlight that slanted down through the trees. He fished his tinted glasses from a pocket and put them on.

“You cheated,” she growled, but he waved that away as if it was nothing more important than a gnat. That made her madder, but then she saw that Neeko was staring at her. Not eye-to-eye, but at her stomach. She looked down at the red and blue marks on her boiler suit. They were not random marks. They were words. She twisted the material and cocked her head to read them and saw that they were not in English. It was a short phrase written in Latin. The son of a bitch hadn’t just marked her, he’d actually written on her. She was so absurdly stunned that she could not move except to mouth the words. “Dum spiro spero.”

Dahlia could read it. Latin was one of her languages at school. Had she mentioned that in one of her conversations with the old man? Yes. Probably.

She spoke the English translation in a tight whisper.

“‘While I breathe, I hope.’”

She remembered the lesson in school. The words combined ideas from two different philosophers, Cicero and Theocritus, and was thought to be paraphrased by St. Anthony.