“Nobody Can Beat Me,” the Black Belt Boasted — Until a Single Dad Entered the Ring
Chapter 13
Theme:
Font Size:
24px
William pulled himself into the seat. He didn't sit; he collapsed. He threw his steel-toe boots into the passenger footwell and tossed the plastic bag onto the center console. Maya climbed in beside him, pulled her seatbelt across her chest, locked it into place, and stared straight ahead through the dirty windshield.William slid the key into the ignition. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel; the plastic was hot and sticky.Please.He turned the key. The engine cranked. It whined, choked, and shuddered. For three agonizing seconds, it sounded like it was going to die right there in the strip mall parking lot, leaving them stranded. Then, the starter caught. The irregular, sputtering idle rumbled through the rusty floorboards.William exhaled a long, ragged breath that rattled in his throat. He shifted the truck into drive.The sun had dipped below the concrete horizon, painting the city in harsh, washed-out orange. Traffic was thick. The cab of the truck was silent, filled only with the high-pitched mechanical squeal of a failing transmission and the heavy sound of William breathing through his mouth; his nose was packed solid with clotting blood. He drove exactly the speed limit, his hands gripping the wheel with a desperate rigidity—if he let go, he felt like he might float away or pass out entirely."Dad," Maya's voice was small; it barely carried over the engine noise."Yeah, Maya?""Your face looks really bad."William glanced at the rearview mirror. He looked like he had been thrown from a moving vehicle. His left cheekbone was a swollen, glossy black mound; his eye was completely swollen shut, a thin line of dried crust holding the lashes together. His bottom lip was split down the middle."Looks worse than it feels," William lied."Why did you do that?" she asked. She still wasn't looking at him; she was watching the glowing red taillights of the sedan idling in front of them.William looked down at the center console. The plastic bag sat there, slightly crinkled. He knew exactly what was inside: rent, a transmission rebuild, groceries, the electric bill. He didn't see a luxury vacation or a new life; he saw three months of uninterrupted sleep. He saw a temporary ceasefire in the endless, grinding war of poverty. It wasn't a ticket out. It was just a heavy barricade against the door."I had to make a withdrawal," William said. The words scratched against his throat. He turned the steering wheel using only his wrists, avoiding the agonizing pull on his rib cage, and pulled into the glowing parking lot of a corner bodega two blocks from their apartment. "Lock the doors," William said. "I'll be two minutes."He reached into the plastic bag, pulled out a single bundle of hundreds, snapped the paper band with his thumb, and slid one crisp bill into his front pocket. He tossed the rest back into the bag.William pushed open the heavy glass door of the bodega. The bell chimed—a cheerful, bright sound that felt entirely out of place. The clerk, a kid with severe acne and a single AirPod, looked up from his phone. He physically recoiled, his eyes widening at the sight of the blood, the swelling, and the sheer grim exhaustion radiating from the man walking through his door.