You saw a mechanic dismantle a machine," Samantha said, putting his coffee cup down on the edge of the sink. "Nothing more. Go home, Richard. Ice your jaw. Don't come back to this place. " Richard didn't move.
He took a step closer, his eyes searching Samantha's weathered face. "You didn't even look angry," Richard whispered, the memory clearly disturbing him. "When he hit me, Trent was furious. His face was red. He was yelling.
But when you grabbed him, your eyes were completely empty. You looked like you were just taking out the trash. "Who are you? " Samantha picked up her pipe wrench. The metal was cold and heavy, a comforting weight. "I'm the maintenance woman," Samantha said, turning his back to Richard and kneeling back down by the porcelain.
"Shut the door on your way out. " 3 days later, the rain finally broke, leaving behind a bitter biting wind that swept through the parking lot of Westridge Plaza. Samantha was out back by the dumpsters. She was throwing away broken drywall from a water leak in the auto parts store. She moved methodically, favoring his right leg a little less today. The swelling had gone down, leaving only a dull ache.
She heaved a heavy contractor bag over the lip of the rusted green dumpster. It hit the bottom with a wet thud. When he turned around, Richard was standing next to Samantha's ancient rusted F-150. Samantha stopped. She wiped a smudge of drywall dust from his forehead with the back of a gloved hand.
He stared at the software developer for a long, silent moment. "You're making a habit of this," Samantha said. Richard shoved his hands deep into the pockets of an expensive looking wool peacoat. The bruising on his face had settled into a deep, sickly yellow. He looked nervously around the empty loading dock, the wind whipping his thinning hair.
"I need your help," Richard said. I don't fix computers, Samantha replied, walking toward the truck. She reached for the door handle. Four months ago, I was sitting at a red light on Fourth and Elm, Richard blurted out, the words rushing out of him in a desperate torrent. It was 8:00 at night.
I was coming home from work. A guy walked up to my window. He had a tire iron. He smashed the glass. It shattered everywhere.
It was in my hair and my lap. Samantha stopped. Her hand rested on the rusted metal of the truck door. She didn't turn around, but he listened. He pointed the iron at my face and told me to give him my wallet and my phone.
Richard continued, his voice trembling now, fighting against the wind. I gave them to him. He took them, spit on me, and walked away. The whole thing took maybe 20 seconds. Samantha turned her head slightly, looking at Richard over his shoulder.
Richard was staring at the pavement, his breath pluming in the cold air. I'm 52 years old. I manage a team of 30 engineers. I pay my taxes. I follow the rules.
And in 20 seconds, none of it mattered. I was nothing. I was just prey. I sat in my car and cried until the police showed up. Samantha let go of the door handle.
She turned to face Richard fully. He didn't offer pity. Pity was useless. "So, you joined a dojo? " Samantha stated. I wanted to feel safe, Richard admitted, looking up, his eyes glassy.
I wanted to learn how to punch someone so hard they wouldn't take my things. Trent told me he could make me an alpha. He told me he could make me dangerous. He sold you a fantasy, Samantha said softly. I know, Richard practically shouted, frustration leaking out of him.
I know. When he dropped me on Tuesday, I realized I was just as helpless on that mat as I was in my car. But then I saw you. Richard took a tentative step forward. You didn't use anger, Richard said, his tone shifting from desperation to an almost clinical fascination.
You used geometry. You used leverage. You dismantled him without taking a single breath through your mouth. I don't want to learn how to fight in a ring. I want to learn how to not freeze.
I want to learn how to breathe like you do. Samantha looked away. She looked out past the dumpsters toward the gray highway in the distance, watching the endless stream of cars moving mindlessly toward their destinations. She remembered the smell of copper in the air over Ramani. She remembered the heavy, suffocating silence of a room after a breach went wrong.
She remembered the faces of men he had put in the ground and the faces of the men he couldn't save. "You don't want what's in my head," Richard, Samantha said. His voice was quieter than the wind. "It doesn't make you safe. It makes you a ghost.
You stop seeing people. You start seeing targets. You walk into a coffee shop and you don't look at the menu. You look for the exits and you count the hands of everyone in the room to see who's carrying a weapon. It's an exhausting way to live.
I'm already exhausted, Richard countered, his voice cracking. I wake up every night at 3:00 a.m. because I hear glass breaking in my dreams. Please just talk to me. I don't need a sensei. I just need someone who knows the truth about the dark.
Samantha stared at the middle-aged man shivering in his expensive coat. He saw the genuine unadulterated terror beneath the request. Richard wasn't looking to become a tough guy. He was a drowning man asking for a piece of driftwood. Samantha sighed, a long, ragged exhalation that seemed to carry 10 years of fatigue.