He thought of every Eyesore sparer he’d encountered over the years. If he asked any of them “Why do we do this?” they’d say for thrills, for money, but always partly out of anger for what their parents had done to them. But it wasn’tspite. They were as wrong as his mother.

Sparring was a gorgeous, violent distraction. They had chosen the easiest lumps-the ones that came fast and left real bruises-over facing the long-haul ones that could be truly devastating. The shitty parents. The failed jobs. The wrecked relationships. Compared to that, a kick to the face was nothing.

“You’re no pushover,” she said.

“You’re not forgiven,” he said.

She smiled.

***

The Bellringer did things right. Clean, but not sterile. Bright, but not overbearing. People without retinal dysfunctions might not even know it was an Eyesore bar which, Rolle noted, probably made the likes of Soosie and Grace happy. The mat was permanent-an enormous, yellow square on a hardwood floor surrounded by thick blue ropes-but they only sparred on weekends, drew the biggest crowds, and paid the most money.

He’d asked Grace if she was coming. She’d actually brought some friends this time, who sat and ate sprouts while they watched her stretch. Soosie was there with them too.

A promoter delivered the bad news. No other Division Three sparrers had signed up. Apparently, Miss Grace had started a trend. Several names Rolle recognized from previous bouts were on the Division Two board. Would he forfeit? Or did he want to up a level tonight instead?

Rolle thought of his scuffle with the enhanced kid outside Glass Joe’s, of Grace’s previous successes. He could handle the tougher division-hell, he’d beaten half them already.

But he was about to contradict himself, to do something he’d criticized Grace for doing just a week earlier. It was one more punch to his pride than he could take.

He still said “Yes.”

Face the music now, he thought as he approached her. She was on the floor, mid-split, holding herself up by the tips of her fingers.

“Haven’t moved up to Division One yet?” he asked.

Grace smiled. “I thought I’d slum it out a while longer before I try that.”

“Looks like I’m slumming it too,” he said, “I upped tonight.”

She grinned wider, and he fell for her.

“Don’t make me break your nose again.” She winked.

He shrugged and smiled right back. “Half the people here have broken my nose, Grace. And they all lost to me next spar.”

“Sounds like a streak about to end,” she said.

“Only one way to find out.”

With that, Rolle moved to another corner and began to stretch. Even if Grace found his hypocrisy charming, he wasn’t comfortable with it. He didn’t wantto spar Division Two.

Grace went up while he was still stretching. The other sparrer dwarfed her, a burly white kid with a red headband. He’d had some work done, too. At the word “Go,” she popped the guy in the chin for two. She put a fist in the air for the crowd, seemingly unaware that the redhead wantedher to make that kick, to get cocky. Rolle winced. Didn’t she realize he was pulling the same stunt she’d pulled on him the night they met?

Rolle stopped stretching and moved to the corner of the mats as the second round started, pushing past a few spectators clustered at the sides. Grace threw a combination this time, going for speed over power. Rolle felt the rush of air from each blow she delivered and heard the sharp crack of fabric from each of her kicks. But the big guy could block. Every kick she threw glanced off his forearms. He could swat her punches and still cover himself. They went for two minutes, up and down the mat, as she strained and he blocked. A ring of sweat formed on the back of her shirt. That’d look sexy as hell if she weren’t about to get killed, he thought.

The kick came-a brutal, precise axe kick to her clavicle, the kind of thing an enhanced sparrer would have padding for.

The corner judges moved in while the crowd cheered. Two of them raised her up to get her on her feet. Upper-division morons, Rolle thought. They heal up so fast they don’t get it. Grace trembled. Her gasps sounded like hiccups, growing in intensity and duration.

“Give her some air,” someone shouted.

“No,” he said. “She’s hyperventilating. Get a bag.”

Rolle faced her, his hand against the damp base of her neck. “Grace, I used to be in med school. Don’t turn your head. Try to look straight at me. We’re going to get you to a hospital.”

One of her friends brought a paper bag. He handed it to her, watched her fill it, in and out, in and out, growing slower.

Her cheeks regained color, dampened by more than perspiration. Tears without sobs. Tough gal. But she held his sleeve tightly, still shaking.

“I’m coming with you,” he said.

***

The hospital staff carted her away, after a barrage of forms and identification. Grace’s friends moved into a paneled-off waiting room where a television blared from their direction, a nice distraction for the unimpaired. Hospitals were Eyesore-friendly, probably because some law said they had to be. Down the hallway, Rolle found an old-fashioned corkboard wall mount filled with flyers. A blue sheet marked “Employment Opportunities” stared back at him. All the jobs he could do took more experience or more education than he had. Except for one.

Night-shift medical help. You can’t spar and work night shift, he thought.

The attending nurse turned out to be a guy he’d done pre-med with. A fellow dropout. He told Rolle they’d set Grace’s bone. He also complained about the number of sparring injuries they were seeing. Rolle thought of Grace’s new gambit.

“It’s just going to get worse,” he said. “Unenhanced sparrers are going against really big ones now.”

They wheeled Grace out, her arm and neck bound in black gel padding under a cloth

sleeve.

“Want a hug?” he asked.

“I can still kick you,” she said.

“Let’s get your friends and get out of here.”

“Where to?”

He thought a moment. He’d said he would move out, win or lose. He’d done neither.

“Your place,” Rolle said. “I live with my mom.”

***

Grace blocked a front kick and responded with a right to the bicep, just like Rolle had showed her. Now score the point, he thought. She did. She and the other sparrer faced off again, Grace slightly askew with her left foot forward. Even fully recovered, she still favored the shoulder that hadn’t been broken. They’d need to work on that.