“I have here two copies of your final evaluation. Both are signed and dated. One is a pass. The other is a fail.” He tapped a stack of papers with the gold Cross pen. “You need this by the end the day, correct?”

“I—”

“And you mentioned Jose. You’d rather see him go without medicine than satisfy an old man?”

“You are a terrible human being.”

“Come back at the end of your shift, princess. We’ll see which evaluation you choose then.”

She trembled with fury. Her attention narrowed to the pen in his hand. She could stab him in the eye with it. Better yet, the throat. His dark blue external jugular vein visibly throbbed as it ran over the neck’s sternocleidomastoid muscle and under his tissue-thin, white-pebbled skin. She’d have to swing hard and be accurate, but she could do it.

Then anguish swamped her, draining her strength and energy. She’d thought she’d have the nightmare over by the time she left this office. Only the image of blood spurting from his jugular as he choked for air calmed her breathing. She backed toward the door.

“You’re not touching me again, pendejo.” Her voice came out as a low creak.

“Aren’t I?” He sniggered and patted the evaluations.

The student nurse let herself out, though her arms and legs were so heavy she barely had enough strength to turn the knob. But fear that he was behind her, reaching to pull her back into his lair, shot adrenaline into her system; she sprinted down the hall to the locker room. Blinded by tears, she didn’t make it. Her vomit hit the wall next to the door, splattering her face and hair.

A slight wind kicked up a puff of dust on the stadium infield, cooling Duke’s face as he loped onto the diamond.

When the pitcher realized he had zero pain, for the first time in months, he stretched his legs and ran, sprinting across the dirt. Pure joy blasted through his body. He made it to second base before it struck him that he might be wasting a short-lived reprieve. He slowed up, sauntered to the pitcher’s mound, exuding confidence and grace. The field and stands were empty, but he knew he wasn’t alone. He was putting on a show, but it felt right, being able to move and act like the man he used to be. And I will be that man again, he told himself. Life seemed so much brighter.

And then the glass elevator descended from the top of the stadium. The owner’s suite.

The Bronx Bolts’ general manager, the general manager, and the owner stepped off the platform, accompanied by the batting coach and the head team doctor. No one was smiling. The manager approached the mound while Duke and the batter warmed up.

“Hey, Skip.”

“Duke.” The manager spit to the side. “You ready?”