Jack hollers, “Dad? What do you think you are doing? Dad, come back here! You cannot take the money Mom has earned.” Jack runs after his father, into a small concrete shed with a shiny tin roof. Jack follows him, winded and limping. Inside, his father stops, lifts the jar over his head. Gasping for air, Jack screams, “don’t! Mom’s worked too hard for that money!” But his father laughs, smashes the jar on the floor. Glass and coins scatter. Looking down, the coins have turned into faces of people from Jack’s life. His mother-in-law and father-in-law. His wife. His mother. His father. His son. His daughter. The kids his daughter babysat and abused. The judge who presided over his daughter’s court case. The doctors who wanted to help his daughter. The doctors who cared for his mother. His wife. Faces of clients. Business associates. All these faces from Jack’s life. What does it mean?

Jack grabs for his father, who fights him off with fists and palms. He punches Jack with a straight right. Jack has zero defensive skills. Jack has no skill set. When it comes to anything physical, he’s just a soft pudge of male incompetence. He knows numbers, not fighting. His body has no equilibrium. It’s as though he’s drunk. A newborn learning to walk. Stumbling and staggering. The ground feels alien to his feet. He doesn’t want to tread or fall on any of the faces.

Running to a corner, his father grabs a red metal gas can. Jack finds his balance. Steps away, evades the faces, pursues his father, who comes at Jack, telling him, “You’re a weak little man!” Swings the gas can at Jack’s head. Uncoordinated, Jack raises his hands, half shielding himself from the blow, which knocks him down. The floor is cold and marble hard. Jack fights to stand up, but it’s like swimming in molasses. He can barely work his way to his feet, let alone stand. Like the kids who mugged him and ran away, his father runs, and Jack looks on, helpless, watching him dash away from the shed, which has somehow grown almost to the size of a concert hall.