And I find out about the fighters.
That's the part that stops me cold.
There's a boy I half know. Went to my school two years above me, left without graduating. Everybody said he got into the fights and did well for a while, made money, bought a car, and then just stopped. Dropped off. I always assumed he'd moved away, the way people do, chasing something better up the coast. He didn't move away. He's still here, and I find him at the harbor one grey afternoon, sitting on a bollard at the end of the east pier with his shoulders curled in, staring at the water like it's asking him a question he can't answer.
The wind's coming in cold off the sea, tugging at his jacket, and he doesn't seem to feel it. When I say his name it takes him three whole seconds to turn his head. And when he does,
