Page 73 of Silent Damage

My mom points at the quiz on the counter and says, “Nobody knows how to do something until they’re taught. You just needed a little help.”

Jason looks at my mom and whispers, “Thank you for helping me.”

My hands grip the side of Torren’s table as the memory fades. I close my eyes, cursing myself in my head.

Dozens of moments just like that one race through my mind like a home movie on double speed. All of them featuring little moments when Mom made Jason feel seen.

Jason

The July sun burns my shoulders. I’ve never really worn sunscreen, and that’s probably a dumb decision on my part, but when have I ever made good decisions, right?

I visited Old Man McGinty’s place because I needed a punching bag to practice for the fight on Wednesday, and if anyone was gonna have one for cheap, it was McGinty.

He said he’d give it to me if I moved a bunch of shit out of his garage and onto the sidewalk for trash day.

After that, the bag was mine.

It’s hanging from the branch of a tree behind the trailer, and I’m hitting it like my life depends on it.

And my life does depend on it.

I have no idea what Wednesday will be like, but I’ve got to at least try. Am I fighting one dude? Two? More? Are there multiple rounds? How big are these guys?

I’m tough, but there’s a limit to what I can do.

I probably should have asked, but it was hard to think straight while Tobias Kay was threatening my life, then asking to fist my ass.

My body is made for scrappy bar fights, where I can fight dirty, not an organized boxing match with would-be motorcycle gang members.

Also…

Does a motorcycle come with the gig?

Fuck health insurance, gimme a bike! That’s my kind of job perk.

The chain of the punching bag rattles with each strike.

Jab. Cross. Hook.

I hit it again, and the bag swings from the branch and smacks against the trunk of the tree. My knuckles are red, and sweat drips from my shoulders.

This is good.

Fighting in the blazing hot sun like this is good training. It’ll help me build up my stamina.

I hope.

I’ve only got less than a week to train, but I intend to make the most of the time I’ve got leading up to Wednesday.

Jab. Hook. Cross. Jab.

My focus zeroes in on the bag. The world around me darkens, and I focus on my imaginary target.

Doug.

Damn, it would feel so good just to let it rip on Doug.

You want to beat the hell out of a twelve-year-old?