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Jesus fucking Christ. I had not been expecting it. They let me go with some pamphlets, a band-aid on my arm at the point where the blood was drawn, and a sticker. On the way out to the parking lot, I saw the older woman throwing something in her trunk. She opened the driver’s seat door to her gray minivan. The car was a metaphor for her life, I could tell. I thought about it for perhaps a quarter of a second and approached her. “Hey,” I said. She was surprised. “Hi…” she responded. “Dennis.” I extended my hand. “Do I know you?” “No.” That got her thinking about whether she should pursue the conversation or not. She didn’t move so I knew she would. “Nadine.” We shook hands. “How’d it go in there?” I said. “Um…fine I guess?” I didn’t respond. I looked at her in a way that said I expected her to continue. “I mean I’m not pregnant so…” she gestured at nothing and nobody. “Congratulations,” I said. “On not having a child.” I laughed a little bit. She smiled. “I actually have to…” She. Before, he’d been fighting more in grief than anger. Now a lifetime worth of rage took over. Wheeler took two hard shots to the body, and stepped away. He paused to rub at his swelling eye, then grinned and came on like a right-hander, throwing a left-right combination. While Clay was no fighter, thanks to his Golden Gloves father, he knew how to box. He parried most of the blows, then countered with a jab that bloodied Wheeler’s nose and followed that with a hard right to the gut. There was a satisfying grunt of pain as air exploded from a gaping mouth. Wheeler’s breath now came in short, ragged gasps. He moved in again but with caution, like a wounded animal. All his bluster was gone. Clay half-expected him to make a rush and try to wrestle him down. But after feinting with a right, Wheeler unleashed a savage left. It was a haymaker, a desperate attempt at a knockout. The feint was good, but he telegraphed the big punch. Once again Clay bobbed but felt the sting of knuckles.
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