She walked over to the bed of his truck, reached over the side, and pulled out a battered thermos. She unscrewed the cap and poured a half cup of lukewarm black coffee into the plastic lid. She drank it in one swallow, staring at the concrete. "Fighting isn't about what you do with your hands," Samantha finally said, not looking at Richard. "It's about what you do with your panic.
Panic makes you hold your breath. It locks your knees. It gives your brain a thousand options when you only need one. " Richard was dead silent, hanging on every word. Trent thinks he's dangerous because he can kick high, Samantha continued, turning back to face him. But he fights in an environment where the floor is padded and the temperature is controlled.
"Real violence doesn't happen when you're ready. It happens when you're tired, when you're sick, when you have glass in your lap. " Samantha took a few steps toward Richard. He stopped just outside of arms reach. "I'm not going to teach you how to punch," Samantha said. His pale blue eyes were entirely serious.
"I'm not going to put you in a GI. I'm a janitor. I fix things that are broken. Richard nodded slowly, accepting the boundaries. Sunday morning, 7 a.m., Samantha said, turning back toward her truck door.
There's a diner 2 miles down the highway, the one with the neon sign that flickers. Meet me there. We'll drink bad coffee. We'll talk about spatial awareness. We'll talk about how to keep your feet moving when your brain wants to freeze.
Relief washed over Richard's battered face. A small, genuine smile broke through the tension. Thank you. I'll be there. I'm paying for breakfast.
Yeah, you are, Samantha said dryly. He opened his truck door, the hinges screaming in protest. She climbed into the driver's seat, his bad knee throbbing slightly as he bent it. She slammed the door shut and rolled down the window. "And Richard," Samantha called out over the idling engine.
"Yeah, don't wear the cardigan on Sunday," Samantha said. "You look like a substitute teacher. " For the first time in 4 months, Richard let out a loud, genuine laugh. Samantha put the truck in gear and slowly drove out of the lot, leaving the empty dojo behind. The diner was called Patsy's, though the P in the neon sign over the door had burnt out a decade ago. It sat on the shoulder of the highway, a squat cinder block building that served burnt hash browns and coffee that tasted like battery acid.
It was perfect. Samantha was in a booth in the far back corner. She sat with her back to the wall, his bad legs stretched out under the formica table. From her seat, he had a clear line of sight to the front door, the cash register, and the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. At exactly 7, Richard walked through the door.
He was wearing a dark canvas jacket and heavy boots. He looked tired, but the bruised yellow swelling on his jaw had started to fade into a dull gray. Richard paused in the entryway, scanning the booths. He spotted Samantha, offered a tight nod, and walked over. Richard slid into the vinyl booth across from Samantha.
He unzipped his jacket. "I'm early," Richard said, checking his watch. "Or at least I thought I was. " "You're on time," Samantha replied. She didn't offer a smile. "Sit still.
Look at me. Don't turn your head. " Richard froze, his hands resting on the table. Okay, you walked in 30 seconds ago, Samantha said, her voice low, steady, slipping into the cadence of a woman who evaluated risk for a living. Without looking around, tell me how many people are in this room. Richard blinked.
He swallowed. Uh, us, the waitress. There was a guy at the counter. Wrong, Samantha said flatly. There are seven people in this room.
The waitress, the cook behind the window, the guy at the counter, two truckers in the booth by the bathrooms, and a teenager in the corner booth to your right wearing a headphones. You missed half the room. Richard looked frustrated. He started to turn his head. Don't look, Samantha snapped, a sharp command that stopped Richard instantly.
What was the guy at the counter wearing? A jacket, Richard guessed, his heart rate ticking up slightly. He's wearing a high-vis construction vest. He's left-handed. His coffee cup is on his left side.
His keys are on his left hip. The two truckers by the bathroom are exhausted. They haven't spoken a word to each other in 10 minutes. The teenager is completely checked out, staring at his phone. Samantha leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table.
"You walk through the world asleep, Richard," Samantha said, stripping away any comforting illusions. "You only look at what's directly in front of you. The door, the counter, me. You don't see the environment. Predators look for people who are asleep.
They look for tunnel vision. The guy who smashed your window didn't pick you at random. He watched the intersection. He saw you staring at your phone at the red light. He knew you wouldn't see him coming.
The waitress, an older woman with tired eyes and a stained apron, walked over and dropped two thick ceramic mugs of black coffee on the table. She didn't ask what they wanted. She just poured and walked away. Richard stared at the steam rising from the black liquid. The harsh truth stung, but he didn't argue.
He knew Samantha was right. "So, how do I wake up? " Richard asked quietly. "You start by counting the exits," Samantha told him. "Every room you walk into for the rest of your life. Before you look at the menu, before you find a seat, you find the doors.
Front door, back door, kitchen service door, you build a map in your head. " Samantha took a sip of his coffee. She didn't flinch at the heat. "Next, you look at hands," Samantha continued. Faces lie. Hands don't.