Roxy Fisk's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Roxy Fisk learned about the title bout from a chalk line on the camp board. Her name. Friday. Six days out. She read it twice, then walked past the stretching mats to find Kevintor before he heard it from anyone else. He was already at the fence, duffel by his boot, looking at the gate the guards had chained shut for the lockdown week. The fence ran the whole north edge of camp, taller than him, taller than the painted banner that hung from the watch post above it. He had been waiting on her for three days. She could see he was done waiting. She stopped two steps behind him. He didn't turn. The initials on her left forearm itched the way they did when her old coach would have told her to say the hard thing first. He used to say she fought like she had something to prove. She still didn't know what. She only knew the gym was the one place she didn't have to explain herself, and now the one person she wanted to explain herself to was about to walk out of it. "Friday," she said. "They gave me the belt fight. I can't leave camp till after." "I heard." He picked up the duffel. "That's why I'm going now." "Don't." It came out mean, the way everything came out with him. She swallowed and tried again. "Kevintor. Don't go yet." He looked at her then. Six titles in his record and he still listened like a kid being told a story. She had a speech ready. She had been writing it in her head between rounds on the heavy bag for a month. None of it came out. What came out was, "I need a corner. I need you in mine." Not the thing. Close to the thing. He shook his head once. "I'm following a name. I told you." Short. Clipped. The way he said everything. "If I wait through your fight, I lose the trail." She walked back to her training spot and unhooked the heavy bag from its stand. The chain was heavier than she remembered. She dragged the bag and the stand across the dirt to the fence and dropped them at his feet. Red trim. Worn black canvas. Her gloves still tied to the top ring. "Take it," she said. "Wherever you're going. Hit it when you stop for the night. So you remember someone's still throwing at home." He looked at the bag. He looked at her. He didn't speak. He picked up the stand in one hand and the bag over his shoulder and walked to the gate. The guards opened it for him. They closed it behind him. Roxy stood at the fence and watched the chain go back through the latch.