Chapter Sixteen
Ow.
I’ve been in a few fights in my life, but not enough to be, you know, good at it. There’s a method to punching people that ensures you don’t hurt yourself as much as the person you’re hitting.
Now that my hand is aching as badly as my ankle was a few minutes ago, it’s clear this is a skill I’m painfully bad at. Even in my rage, part of my brain is functioning enough to try to talk me out of taking another swing.
I swing anyway. He dodges it. I swing again. He catches my limp haymaker in his palm, closing white knuckles around it. I struggle to free myself, but his grip is like iron.
Finally, I cease my pathetic efforts, and he lets go. I retreat several steps. Guess that one free shot is all I get.
I scream, “You’re alive? You’re f*****g alive?” My voice has gone
