The wild man spun and came on, throwing a looping right that Nathaniel parried with his left and countered with a right of his own. It cracked Downey in the ear. He’d thrown his first punch and he’d connected! Now his body, released from the manacles of fear, began to move with fluid speed, even with grace. A wondrous clarity came to his mind. He was able to think tactically. His bull-shouldered opponent was by far the stronger, and he didn’t seem to mind getting hit, if that’s what he had to do to get in his licks. But he was also drunk, disadvantaged in reach, and he had no art, no real skill. If the taller Nathaniel could keep him off with his longer arms, he could whip him. I can whip him. The words forked through his brain. When Downey made another rush, he circled left, popped him between the eyes with two straight jabs, and stopped the charge. Two more jabs, the first missing, the second drawing blood from Downey’s nose. The sight of it inspired a brutal joy in Nathaniel, a feeling he’d never had before, had never suspected was in him. Stepping in, he drove a short, chopping right into the man’s forehead. The punch sent a bolt of pain up his arm, but it also pulled Downey out of his crouch, straightened him right up, like he’d been jerked by a string. Nathaniel flicked another jab, Downey threw up his hands to protect his face, exposing his midsection. Spotting the opening, Nathaniel lowered his left shoulder, as his coach had taught, and pumped a hook to the ribs. The shorter man winced, dropped his guard, and Nathaniel winged a second hook to the temple, feeling a hot, electrical jolt in his knuckles. He ignored it, watched Downey stagger sideways into the bar, and then, all art forgotten in the killer’s heat to finish his man, he waded in, arms windmilling, throwing punches from all directions. Only two landed, but they were enough. Downey slumped against the bar, it holding him up for a moment before he dropped to all fours, shaking his head and dripping blood and vomiting the beer in his belly. Nathaniel stepped back, keeping his hands up; both throbbed from their fractures. He wanted to say, “Had enough?” but his lungs burned, as though he’d been fighting for hours, yet the brawl couldn’t have lasted a full regulation round. One of the spectators yelled, “Hey, that kid is scienced!” and another cried out, “You’d best finish him, boy-o!” Nathaniel gasped, “He is finished.”