And still, Nathaniel could not move. In the next instant, Downey sprang and yanked him from his chair with horrifying ease. His knees buckled, he staggered backward. He’d been hit hard in the chest. He hadn’t seen the punch coming, hadn’t felt it as pain, only as a sudden weakness in his legs. Someone grabbed him from behind and stopped him from falling. A voice shouted in his ear, “Fight him, kid, or he’ll beat you to a pulp just for exercise.” He was shoved back out into the middle of the circle, his feet slipping on the tiles. Downey crouched, fists rolling, derby hat off, reddened eyes narrowed. Nathaniel put up his hands, conscious only of the malevolent figure in front of him, and of the singular, petrifying realization that he wasn’t in a fight, he was in mortal combat. He thought he was going to vomit.

Downey rushed him, fists pumping, and in that sliver of time, Nathaniel’s training took over. Sidestepping, he slipped most of the flurry. One punch grazed his temple, with enough force to cause what sounded like a dull explosion inside his skull. Clearing his head, he sidestepped another rush, and this time wasn’t touched. Carried forward by his own momentum, Downey stumbled into the crowd, the drunk and half-drunk men cheering, cursing, shouting encouragement, most to Downey, but some to Nathaniel.