Donovan looked around the park one last time. He looked at the towering gray apartment blocks hemming them in. “These kids today,” Donovan said, his voice dropping, shedding the professional detachment. “They grow up on screens. They think life has a respawn button. They don’t understand that flesh tears. They don’t respect the floor because they’ve never been introduced to it properly.” Donovan looked back at Victor. The cynical glaze in his eyes had cleared, replaced by a quiet, profound respect. “I’m off duty in twenty minutes,” Donovan said. “I didn’t see anything here today. Just an old man feeding the birds.” “I appreciate that, officer.” “Don’t mention it.” Donovan turned to leave, his heavy boots crunching against the pavement. He stopped after two steps and looked over his shoulder. “You ice that shoulder, Pop. You’re too old to be throwing heat like that without tearing a rotator cuff.” “I know,” Victor said. Donovan gave a two-finger salute off the brim of his uniform cap and walked back to his cruiser. Victor watched the heavy car back down the path, turn onto the street, and disappear into the flow of city traffic. Victor was alone again. He sat on the bench for another half hour. He didn’t move until his heart rate was entirely normal, until the cold sweat had dried, and until he was absolutely certain his legs would support his weight. The city around him continued its loud, grinding routine. The businessman with the sprained ankle limped back the other way. The tired mothers pushed their strollers. Nobody looked at him. Nobody knew that the frail man in the tweed coat had just bent reality to his will. He was invisible again.
With a slow, agonizing effort, Victor pushed himself up from the bench. His left knee ground in protest, the bone-on-bone friction sending a sharp spike of nausea into his stomach. He leaned heavily on his leather cane, taking a moment to find his balance. It was time to go home. The walk back to his apartment took twice as long as the walk to the park. Every step was a negotiation with gravity. The adrenaline had masked the structural damage, but the bill was coming due. His right shoulder burned with a deep, sickening heat. His right hip, which had anchored the violent torque of the knockout punch, felt stiff and unyielding. But it was his hands that bothered him the most. He looked at his knuckles as he limped down the sidewalk. The swelling had worsened. The skin over his index and middle knuckles was purple and taut. He hadn’t hit bone in ten years. He had forgotten how dense a human jaw felt against an unprotected fist. Gloves were a lie. Gloves protected the striker, not the target. Bare-knuckle physics were entirely different. They were brutal, unforgiving, and biologically costly. He stopped at a small corner bodega three blocks from his apartment. The bell above the door jingled a dull, flat note. The clerk, a quiet man named Frank, who always had a stub of a cigar clamped unlit in his teeth, looked up from his newspaper. Victor shuffled to the back freezer, his cane clicking against the scuffed tile floor. He pulled out two bags of frozen peas. They were cheaper than actual ice packs and molded better to the joints. He walked to the counter and placed them down, digging into his coat pocket for a crumpled five-dollar bill. Frank looked at the frozen peas. Then he looked at Victor’s swollen purple right hand resting on the countertop. Frank paused. He gently pushed the five-dollar bill back across the counter. “On the house today, Victor,” Frank said around the cigar stub. Victor looked at the money, then at Frank. Frank wasn’t smiling. There was no pity in his eyes, just a quiet, knowing acknowledgement. “Thank you, Frank,” Victor rasped. He put the money back in his pocket, picked up the cold bags, and left the store.