But I do. I have to. There’s absolutely nothing I can do to help him.

I’m grabbed after I take two steps. She’s been waiting behind me apparently. Not a cop, though there are two officers standing a little farther off; obviously her backup. She is dressed in a social services uniform, and she looks very smart in it.

“Everything’s okay, Ceddy. He’s going to be all right.”

I almost blurt out that my name is Bright Estabrook, but that’s just some weird buried instinct from all the times I’ve imagined this scenario. She’s taken me by my elbows, her grip strong. I try not to twist in her grasp, but even when I do, I’m horrified to find how weak I am.

“It’s okay. Calm down.”

The strange thing is that I am kind of calm, like this is no surprise at all, like I was expecting this inevitability on this very day, from the moment I woke up. It’s bullshit, of course, but the feeling is vaguely comforting and I grab onto it.

“It’s okay,” I repeat back to her.

She gives me a grim smile. “Good. That’s good.” She relaxes her hold on my elbows and takes a step back. She looks me over from head to toe, and it reminds me of when Brett did that to me. A pang accompanies the memory, then fades to nothing.

I hear a commotion behind me but don’t turn. I don’t want to see Dad getting beaten to the ground by police batons. I wish the dumb bastard would just go quietly.

“How are you, Ceddy?”

“I’m fine, Adalia.”

The grim smile curls at one corner, ironically. “We’re going to have to take you in too. Not to arrest you. But you can’t be out here alone. Right now you’re a danger to yourself and others.”

Behind, a voice rises, cursing; but it doesn’t sound like Dad. Another feral shouter joins in. I say to my sister, “It’s like I’m a … sinner. Isn’t it?”

Her face goes still. In a low tone she says, “Don’t start talking like that, Ceddy. Or there won’t be anything I can do to help.”

“Was it so bad? What he was doing?” I still don’t turn, even as I now do hear, distinctly, a blunt object impacting a human body.

Adalia’s eyes flick past my shoulder, then back to me. She’s so grownup it’s unreal-her face, her body, her bearing. “What he did is a crime, a serious one. The world has had enough. We’ve had one too many religious wars. We’ve had a hundred too many. No more. It gets cut off at the source, Ceddy.”

I know all this. Any kid who’s learned the alphabet knows it. I ask, “Are they hurting him

bad?”

She frowns as one of her backup officers breaks off and goes racing toward the plaza. I still don’t turn around. She says, “Dad’s just standing there, not resisting. It’s these others, the ones who were listening to him, that are going apeshit. Nothing’s going to come of it, though. We’ve got enough personnel to handle it.”

Apparently they do. A minute later, peripherally, I see Dad being led away to a police van. He’s not struggling. He doesn’t look our way. I wonder if he’s even noticed his daughter.

God help him.

Adalia tugs on my arm, and we walk the other way, toward a nearby car.

God help us all.

Pain

HE STOOD HIS GROUND AND GOT kicked in the face for the third time that night. His nasal bone snapped. An instant later, he heard the center judge shout that the match was over.

Rolle exhaled through swelling nostrils, knowing the real agony would come later, once the shock wore off. Delayed pain. Something to look forward to.

His opponent-the long-legged blonde who moved like liquid mercury-waved to the shadowed crowd. Sparse, polite applause came in return.

Thanks to the poor turnout in his division-the lowest of three-Rolle’d had to battle for second place with the girl who’d lost to the same guy who’d beaten him. Once on the mat, she’d baited him, letting him get an early point so he’d underestimate her before responding with a point of her own. Then, another. Then, the nose-breaker.

Third place with a losing 1−2 record. Not what anyone would call an accomplishment, he thought. But he’d get paid. Placing in the top three provided a share of cover charges and the sparbar’s entertainment budget, winnings most contestants in his shape would use for some walk-in rhinoplasty.

Rolle needed rent money more than a straight nose.

He stuck around until closing time to collect his cash, trying not to spend it before he had it. The last bout of the night was ending-two Division One sparrers so enhanced each point strike sounded like monster truck tires slapping together. Rolle knew that the patrons came- when they showed up at all these days-to see these Division Ones who sank every payback into new physical upgrades, becoming unbreakable, indefatigable brawlers. As the pummeling continued, Loudon approached Rolle with a gratis bottle of beer.

“Try not to have so much fun, man,” he said.

Rolle forced a big smile and wrapped his index finger and thumb around the bottle’s cold neck. He sipped. When he started this, he’d wanted to make a living from it-work his way up the local rankings, get offers in other towns for guaranteed money. Three years later, he wasn’t really “getting started” any more.

The chick who’d beaten him strolled past, her ponytail bouncing. No nod, nothing.

Camaraderie be damned. Without her protective flak, she looked younger and skinnier. She spun around and fluttered her eyes at him.

“How do I find out when pay’s in?” she asked.

For a second, he thought she was playing dumb until he understood. She wasn’t like him.

She was used to having everything retscanned into her baby blues.

“Chair up and wait,” he said.

They sat in tense silence until Loudon came around again.

“One for her,” Rolle said.

“Thanks,” she said. “Not many of the other sparrers buy me drinks, especially once they find out I’m … I guess some folks don’t like my kind around here.” She laughed dryly and drained half the beer in two swigs.

“Don’t feel too sorry for yourself there, Second Place,” Rolle said, as Loudon passed along her winnings in cash.

Her cheeks reddened under the bright, white overhead lights. She got it.

“I’ve got no right to whine,” she said. “Sorry about your nose, man.”

“I’ll heal. See you around.”

Rolle watched her leave, stared a bit too long. Her shoulder was still pink from a fall in an earlier round. Slow to heal, like the other Division Threes. At a window booth, two of the nights’ Division One losers chowed down on some noodles with their girlfriends. Can’t even tell they’ve been sparring,he thought. In the bar’s center, a bouncer began to spray down the mats with disinfectant, the acrid lemon smell of closing time.