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“You’ll get him next time, sport,” Noah said under his breath as the defeated warrior was carried off. Already, the gas had dissipated in the open air, fading into nothingness above the crowds.

The school year was coming to an end and I was busying myself with spring sports. I was doing track and field, distance events like the 1,500-meter run. I also tried my hand at pole vaulting, which did not go well. I had to quit vaulting before I really hurt myself. One particularly grueling Friday at practice, I noticed Mrs. B. in the bleachers watching. Faculty often wandered out to watch teams practice or play, but Mrs. B was rarely among them. She lingered when the practice was over, so I went over to say hi. She seemed genuinely happy to see me, even though she had been quite aloof in class or in the hallway.

A solid kick to Viktor’s balls brought him to the ground, but Noah wouldn’t let him go that easily. Several hard stomps pulverized the man’s legs, and then he seized his broken right arm and continued snapping the bones, along with his fingers. One might think the audience, having cheered through gruesome violence for fight after fight, would be overjoyed by this display of brutality, but it was the opposite. They were dead silent, feeling their earlier excitement wither with every pained howl, and when Noah twisted Viktor’s left arm until his broken bones tore through his flesh, many turned away, unable to watch anymore.