“And try to lay off that Mr. Monosyllabic bullshit,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me all your secrets and dreams while you’re here, but please at least use some halfway intricate language when you speak to me.”

“Sure,” he said, just to push her buttons.

“Wiseass.” She smiled.

His old room had the same eggshell white walls and popcorn ceiling, but she’d moved his things somewhere-the microscopes, the slides, the fun stuff. He tried not to ask what she’d done with it. It was her stuff now, not his.

“I put all your things in storage.”

He shrugged. “Money.”

“Language, Rolle.”

“I wouldn’t want you to spend what you don’t have chasing an old dream.”

“Mine or yours?” she asked.

“ Yours,” he said. “You can pitch that stuff if it’ll save you paying for a storage unit. I’m not pre-med anymore.”

“You still could be.”

Here it comes, he thought. Her usual lecture about how the clinics needed him, how there should be more doctors who were Eyesores-although she wouldn’t use the word. Being a doctor wouldn’t be enough for her. She wanted him to be herkind of doctor, one who’d treat diseases instead of symptoms, who’d heal sick people without filling them full of chemicals to keep them from getting sick in the first place, who embraced illness and disability and death as natural parts of life.

“Not gonna happen, Mom,” he said.

But she knew as well as he did. If he reallyhadn’t cared about the microscopes, he’d have taken them with him to face all the deadbeat apartments and basher roommates, the late night wrestling matches and petty break-ins. He still cared, at least a little.

Later, he analyzed the job he’d performed on his nose in his mom’s bathroom mirror. Not bad for a med school dropout. He’d checked it for septal hematoma the night it happened. Not enough coagulation to divide the septum and the cartilage. He didn’t need medical training to know that-ideally, at least-broken noses healed themselves.

Broken careers didn’t.

***

Rolle inhaled the sparbar’s familiar smell of beer and ammonia. He took the bag of gear from his shoulder and sat it on the ground as he read the front chalkboard. Seven sparrers had signed up for his division. He’d drawn a bye in the first round. No serious beginning sparrer wanted to start in the semi-finals with a bye. It cut into vital exposure. More bouts meant more people saw you spar. But a bye put him closer to placing, closer to cash and a way out of Mom’s place. He searched the room. The same sparrers who had been at Glass Joe’s. The blonde. He took the bye.

Rolle killed time by stretching out and watching the first rounds. He also scanned the chalkboard to see if he could figure out the blonde’s name, but he knew everyone listed in his division. He didn’t understand until he saw her first match.

She’d upped a division.

Division Twos wore lighter padding, and everyone in it-Eyesore or not-had some kind of enhancement. Unless she’d done something really drastic in the last two weeks, she was freeballing against someone with a major advantage. And she beat him anyway.

His own match came quickly, against the big Korean called Pete. Rolle placed one bare foot against the cold mat and stepped into the ring. He slid his mouthpiece over his teeth, bit the plastic grooves that lined perfectly with his bottom molars. He’ll wait for me to do all the kicking, he thought, then come in strong later in the match.

When the center judge shouted “Go,” Pete cleared several feet between them and kicked Rolle in the ribs-a strike that would’ve fractured them were it not for the padding.

First point: Big Pete.

And Pete wasn’t just fast. He had more power and more finesse than Rolle, who particularly prided himself on the latter quality. He peered out into the crowd. The blonde was watching, arms crossed, face shadowed.

Time to ditch finesse

.

At the next shout, Rolle didn’t even bother to block, walked directly into Pete’s kick, grabbed his leg, and tossed him on him ass. Pete had scored a second point, but now he’d start thinking.

They traded blows for two more points, with Rolle landing a two-point head kick and Pete scoring on a body punch. He knew Pete would come in close for the last point. Three-to-two. Pete just needed one punch to win.

Pete had speed and skill. Rolle had two years of medical training.

Rolle kicked. Pete blocked and moved in. An uppercut, Rolle thought. Here it comes.

Pete’s right fist dropped slightly, taut for the quick point, exposing his arm just below the shoulder. Rolle punched hard into the bicep, right in the musculocutaneous nerve. A no-point punch, but one that hurt like hell. Pete backed up for a split second, just long enough to take Rolle’s two-point roundhouse to his head.

He won the next two matches without any problem, and considered himself well on his way out of his mom’s house.

***

He celebrated by drinking with Soosie. Any good sparring scene needed an obligatory, semi-crooked promoter, someone who’d let you get severely damaged if it meant a higher turnout next week. That was Soosie. But she bought him a top-shelf scotch. And introduced him to Grace.

“You two know each other?” she said.

“Yeah, she broke my nose once.”

He and Grace had won their respective divisions. She’d had a few drinks and was more communicative than before.

“There’s good sparrers in Division Three,” she said. “Better defense and better technique because they needit. But Two’s got more sparrers, and more money to go around if you win.”

“More bouts too,” Rolle said.

“Well, true, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. You’d get bored sparring the same six Division Threes every week. So would the crowds.”

She had him there.

“The crowd issparrers now,” Soosie said. “Look, if you’ve got some bright ideas about how to get more people to show up, tell me. I’m swinging and hitting nothing.”

Grace eyed Rolle cautiously, then launched in. “People want action-visceral excitement they can’t get on a video screen.”

He’d heard that line before. He knew what was coming.

“This has to appeal beyond just the regulars.” She meant Eyesores. Rolle could feel her thigh touching his under the table, compelling enough to make him shelve his standard rebuttal.