Colt rolled onto his side and sat up with the help of the ringside medic. His eyes were wide and his breathing uneven, but he was conscious and able to speak. His right shoulder hurt where his movement had been stopped, and the knowledge that people were watching him struggle seemed to cause another kind of pain. He looked at Byron with an expression he had never directed toward the older guard before. It contained the beginning of recognition, but also resentment so fierce that Nora could almost see it gathering.
"Who the hell are you?" Colt asked.
Byron looked at him, checked that the medic was attending, and said nothing. He had not entered the ring to settle a score. Whatever the crowd imagined, the moment held no triumph for him. He stepped between the ropes, moved past the announcer, and returned to his position at the emergency exit. He picked up his radio from the folding chair, clipped it to his belt, and resumed the watch he had been pulled away from.
Nora hurried to him. "Mr. Fletcher, are you hurt?"
"I'm all right," he said. "Please check the young man."
"He started it," Nora replied. "Everybody saw."
Byron glanced toward the ring. "That doesn't mean he shouldn't be checked."
Nora swallowed a response. She looked at Byron's hands and saw that one was trembling slightly. His face remained composed, but the color had gone from his lips. The exertion had taxed him more than anyone in the bleachers could know, and the sudden attention threatened the privacy he had spent years protecting. Nora asked him to sit down for a moment. This time he agreed, and she brought water while he regained his breath.
The ring crew tried to continue the show. Wade ordered the announcer to move to the next sponsor segment, but the crowd ignored the screen. People replayed the four-second sequence on their phones, comparing angles and repeating Byron's name. The sponsors' representative approached Wade with a carefully neutral question about whether the participant had signed a waiver. Wade did not answer immediately. He looked at the emergency exit, where the man he had treated as disposable sat on a folding chair with a bottle of water.
In the medical area, Colt pushed aside an ice pack and demanded to see footage of the fall. He repeated that the old man had used something illegal, then accused the medics of failing to stop the demonstration. His sparring partners avoided his eyes. One offered to call a hospital for an assessment, and Colt agreed only after asking whether cameras could photograph him with his arm supported. The humiliation had already begun reshaping itself into a story in which he was the injured party.