“Yeah?” came the voice.

“Hey, Rob.”

Tacoma, an ex–Navy SEAL, was Dewey’s closest friend, that is, if he actually had friends. Dewey hadn’t spoken to Tacoma since a few days before Jessica’s funeral.

“Dewey.”

“I’m good, thanks for asking,” said Dewey.

“Like I’m the one who went off grid, asshole. What are you doing? Are you still up in Maine? What are you gonna become, a fucking lobsterman?”

“Maybe,” said Dewey. “I like lobsters. Sorry for not calling. I’ve been … well, I’ve been getting my head straight.”

“Uh-oh. Are you doing yoga or some shit like that? Acupuncture? No, wait, you’re a fucking vegan, aren’t you? I knew it. Just tell me you’re not driving a Prius. I swear, I’ll never talk to you again.”

Dewey laughed.

“No, I still have my balls. I’m in D.C. I’m at Jess’s.”

“Really? Awesome.”

Tacoma did his best to act positive, despite the mention of Jessica and the fact that Dewey was in what was to have been their future home, obviously alone.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” continued Tacoma. “You want to get together?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Listen, they’re telling us to shut off our phones,” said Tacoma. “I’ll call you when—”

“I have a quick question.”

“Uh-oh. Let me guess. You’re in jail. Call fuckin’ Hector, man.”

Dewey laughed again.

“You still fight?” asked Dewey.

“What do you mean, ‘fight’?”

“Mixed martial arts. That UFC shit you’re always talking about.”

Tacoma paused.

“Yeah,” he involuntarily offered. “Why?”

“You like it?”

“It’s not as much fun as it used to be. There are some punks out there. Last time I was at a gym, I almost got my neck broken. All these guys think they’re gonna be famous. Scouts from UFC are always there, so they’re showing off. That being said, it’s the only way to keep sharp, other than running ops, of course.”

Dewey reached for the brown bag. He unscrewed the cap and took a large swig.

“There’s a decent gym in Adams Morgan. Some good fighters.”

“Is that where you almost got your neck broke?”

“No,” said Tacoma. He paused for several moments. “Dewey, look, I know you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I know you’ve been drinking.”

Dewey looked at the case of beer. He picked up the Jack Daniel’s and took another gulp.

“Tell me the name of the gym,” said Dewey. “I promise I won’t kill anyone.”

Tacoma laughed.

“I’m not worried about them.”

“Rob.”

Tacoma let out a sigh.

“Okay, fine. It’s in southeast, out near Redskins stadium. It’s called Whitewater. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

*   *   *

The neighborhood was one, possibly two steps up the economic ladder from ghetto. A few stores had hand-scrawled signs advertising their wares. Others sat vacant, shuttered in graffiti-covered corrugated steel. People were gathered on the stoops of boarded-up, burned-out town houses, drinking and smoking.

At eight o’clock, the night was still young. But darkness had long ago descended on this forgotten part of the nation’s capital.

The taxi driver dropped Dewey at the back edge of Lincoln Park, unwilling to go any farther into the neighborhood. Dewey climbed out, without tipping, and walked the last dozen blocks to Whitewater MMA.

Dewey had on jeans and a green T-shirt, along with running shoes. He walked down the sidewalk, a hard look on his face, staring a thousand miles away as he moved toward the gym. He stepped through the steel door of the gymnasium as, a few blocks away, a siren started to wail.

The inside of Whitewater was humid, with a sharp, acrid smell that stung the nostrils. Years’ worth of body odor hovered in the cavernous gym. To most, the smell sent a wave of disgust, even nausea. But Dewey breathed it in. It was an odor he knew well, a smell he’d hated, then come to love, first at BC, the stench of the varsity football team locker room. In Rangers, it was the CQB room, where Dewey learned the basics of hand-to-hand combat, alongside the rest of his Ranger class. It’s not that the memories were fond ones, but they were part of him.

There was a large crowd, fifty or sixty people, mostly young men, black or Hispanic, in their late teens or early twenties. The few who were older had on street clothing. These were, Dewey guessed, coaches and scouts.

A few heads turned as Dewey stepped through the door. He was greeted with cold stares.

There were three rings. Two were smaller sparring rings, used for practice. Both were occupied. In one, a small tattoo-covered Hispanic kid was working with a coach. He had on red Lycra shorts and no shirt. He was barefoot. The coach was working on his kicking attack. Every few seconds, he would launch a vicious series of kicks, his feet sometimes slashing above his coach’s head.

The other ring had a bout going on. A few people were watching as the two barefoot, muscled fighters circled each other. One of them suddenly charged the other, leaping, kicking his right foot toward his opponent’s head, striking it, sending the man tumbling down to the mat as blood surged from his mouth. But the man on the ground was up in seconds, side-crawling away from a second strike, standing quickly, then slamming a fist into his opponent’s torso, followed by another, then tackling him to the mat.

“Hey, it ain’t free.”

Dewey’s head turned. A man in a wheelchair was looking at him.

“You wanna watch, fine, but it ain’t free.”

“How much?”

“Ten bucks.”

“How much for one of the rings?”

The man in the wheelchair looked Dewey up and down.

“What do you want it for?” he asked. “You gonna do some Pilates?”

Dewey looked at him, ignoring his taunt.

“How much to fight?”

“Spar?”

“Fight.”

The man grinned.

“What’d you watch some UFC on TV? This ain’t the place for amateur white guys from Alexandria to learn how to fight.”

Dewey scanned him with his eyes.

“How much for a fight?”

The man reached for Dewey’s right arm, grabbing him by the wrist, tugging it down toward him. He lifted Dewey’s T-shirt, revealing a long, nasty-looking purple-and-pink scar, which ran from his shoulder blade down the front of his biceps.

“What the fuck is that from?”

Dewey ignored the question.

“Tough guy. Okay, you want a fight, I’ll get you a fight.”

The man took a whistle from around his neck. He blew it. A moment later, a tall black man approached.

“Daryl,” he said, nodding at Dewey, “get Chico or one of the other young guys. Put ’em in the big ring. Pretty boy here wants to relive his youth.”

The man in the wheelchair turned back to Dewey.

“Fifty bucks, up front.”

*   *   *

In a small locker room off the main gym, Dewey removed his shoes, jeans, and T-shirt. Beneath, he had on cutoff khaki shorts, covered in paint stains. They were the only shorts he could find at the town house.

He walked back inside the gymnasium. The smaller rings were empty now. The crowd had gathered around the center ring. Dewey pushed his way through.

Daryl was standing in the middle of the ring, there to officiate. Behind him was a short, stocky Hispanic kid who wore a bright yellow Lycra body suit. His arms, neck, and legs were covered in colorful tattoos. He had short-cropped black hair. A tattoo of a large tear was painted below his left eye. He was stacked with muscle, punching the air in place and bouncing on his bare feet as Dewey climbed into the ring.

Daryl looked at Dewey’s shorts, then at his scar, then at him. He walked to Dewey, leaning toward him.

“Hey, man, no shame if you wanna bail now,” he whispered, “know what I mean?”

Dewey didn’t respond.

The truth is, he barely heard the words.

Maybe it was the smell of the gym. Or the eyes, filled with doubt, now upon him. Maybe it was the sight of the fight before, in the sparring ring, the kick, the blood spilling onto the mat. Whatever it was, he started to feel the warmth that for too long had gone missing. The warmth that should’ve found him in Mexico. Adrenaline. It was only the faintest hint of it, and yet it was unmistakable. He glanced down at his right arm. He saw the small black tattoo of a lightning bolt. And then whatever warmth was there flamed into fire.