In four words, Mac had hurtled from his adrenaline-high to a heart-sickened rock-bottom. And in the moments that followed, he lost nearly all sense of time, of the aching of his body, and of the stickiness of his sweaty skin. The ride to the police station and the experience of being questioned for personal information blurred together and even now, as he was lead by the arm and taken to be seen by the nurse, his mind was still struggling to catch up, lagging a thousand miles away from his numb, heavy body.

After sitting himself down on the examination table - the crinkling of sterile drapes having seemed painfully loud – Mac fought to keep from picking at the skin around his fingernails or bouncing his knee as he waited with only the sound of a pen scratching and scraping against paper to listen to, his insides twisting up like cloth being wrung in someone's hands. An officer stood vigilantly and with folded arms at the corner of the room by a locker stuffed with medical supplies. Their eyes met and the boy immediately averted his, staring at the tiled floor instead. It was the safest place to rest his gaze. But he felt the man's presence regardless - his glowering disapproval - like a chill in the room. His bare arms were studded with goosebumps, his fingers feeling cold and stiff.

He had tried his best to be a good kid.

He had finished his homework every night - albeit with reluctance and difficulty – when he had been in school; he had striven to get decent grades. He washed his hands before dinner, he minded his language as best he could, never drank or took drugs, and made sure to chew with his mouth closed whenever he remembered. The worst he had ever really done was steal some candy and a bag of jacks from the store as an eleven year old frustrated with his frugal parents, with the unfairness of life, and with living in a damn dumpy little house next to other dumpy little house for as long as he could remember.

Snapping on a pair of gloves, the nurse sat up from her chair and approached him at last with a penlight.

"Lift your head, please, and look straight ahead."

He obeyed, half-reluctantly. His eyes were raw-rimmed and shiny.

She flashed the light into them, one at a time, frowning thoughtfully at the sharp contraction of his pupils. No indication of any severe head trauma. Pocketing the implement, she then carefully turned his face in her hands, to one side and to the other, noting the slight swelling around the left cheekbone, the bruising around the jaw.

The latex was smooth and vaguely cool against his sore skin.

She had him sit to one side and lower his head, allowing her to cautiously brush aside his hair and inspect the tender lump at the back of his skull.

"Any nausea? Vomiting?"

It was a strain to think. Battling his bone-dry, clenching throat, he managed to answer, his voice just above a whisper. "Jus' nausea."

"Just nausea then. Good. The feeling should go away in a few hours."

The rest of the examination was carried out with brisk efficiency. Within ten minutes, he had his ribs and abdomen palpated for fractures and visceral injuries, had a TB test administered, and was being ushered into a holding room with a bag of ice. Gazes holding wariness, amused curiosity, and haggard indifference turned towards him all at once. Only two people seemed like they might be anywhere near his age.

Mac dropped down onto a wooden bench set into the wall, looking desperately towards the thick, fingerprint-smeared glass window. But the officer who had shown him in didn't notice. Grinding a key into the lock and securing the door, the man turned his heel and walked off, moving further and further away until he turned the corner into another hall.

Five minutes passed. Then ten; then twenty.

Reluctantly, Mac pulled his attention away and willed himself to rest his head against the wall. He shut his eyes.

In a match his mind was an invaluable asset, sharp and usually fairly quick to perceive openings in the guard of his opponents. But here and now, as minutes bled away in idleness and the shock of his incarceration began to wear off, it was the biggest threat to his well-being in the room, even while among some people of questionable sobriety.

His mind played and replayed the confrontation in the streets a hundred times over in a hundred different ways until he could no longer clearly remember how the incident began. Then, what ifs and what nows mobbed him- -

What if he had shown self-restraint and just walked away? And what if he missed the match tomorrow night?

- - ruthlessly attacking his nerves one question at a time.

It felt like a lifetime ago since he had been training rigorously to prepare himself for his match and the sudden thought of all the effort and progress, everything he and Doc had worked for going to waste because of a single, impulsive decision was…

Mac pressed the heels of his palm to his eyebrows, thumping them pathetically against his forehead before letting them fall to his lap. By sheer will alone, he managed to sit still. But his hands bunched into hard fists as his thoughts locked onto Rat-tail. His Aviator glasses, his broad, daring smirk… his bloodied nose. Even if the man was standing right before him, challenging him, and even if Mac projected onto him every bit of frustration he had ever felt coming home from school bruised or ridiculed, Mac knew he couldn't let himself throw another punch at him. Although dizzyingly intense, his anger was powerless against Rat-tail, unable to touch him. So it turned inward.

He had done what Doc had told him never to do and could only imagine, with a sense of dread, the look on his face he would be forced to acknowledge whenever they next met.

An hour passed, then another spent thrashing inside himself with furious guilt. The teen was barely a hair away from punching the glass as if the raw pain spiking through his knuckles would ease his conscience. But it wasn't that easy. Nothing ever was.

Eventually, though, his rage petered out. It hadn't resolved itself so much as drained too much of his energy, having little left to keep it going. And by the end Mac was left in a fog, exhausted emotionally, spiritually, physically. He cracked open his eyes for the first time in a long time, slowly coming to realize he was still in the holding cell and aching with hunger. He glanced about himself and saw tired, wary looks around him. The looks of too many thrown into a small space with nothing to do but to pace in restless circles.

But among those around him, one single person stood out. It was a middle-aged, blond-haired man, respectable-looking in a button-down shirt and slacks. He sat leaning forward with his elbows resting over his knees, his fingers laced together. All but unremarkable, save for the fact that he was staring at Mac from across the room. Staring, even after the others had lost interest. Unblinking, unsmiling, inscrutable.

The ever-present sinking feeling in Mac's gut sharpened and he dropped his gaze, a tremor passing through his body. His thoughts raced.

They couldn't take him to prison with grown men. Everyone had heard of the prison hierarchy and the violent, terrible things inmates were capable of doing to one another. How would he survive?

Swallowing thickly, Mac clenched his jaw and pressed his damp, trembling hands together, trapping them between his knees to steady them. When he tentatively lifted his eyes, he felt a stab of alarm to find that the stranger's attention was on him still. He felt dizzy, a cold, queasy feeling spreading through him.

The jangling of keys at the door of the room jerked him to awareness.

"Hey, kid," the officer called gruffly. It was the dour-faced man from the nurse's office.

Mac looked up, near-sick with anticipation. A prickling bead of sweat dripped between his shoulderblades.

"Yes, you. Come with me, please."

The kid's eyes begged for an explanation as he rose to his feet, inwardly praying that his rubbery legs would bear his weight as he stumbled along into the lobby. At the sight of someone waiting for him he felt his stomach lurch a little, his heart becoming one big, fiercely aching knot in his chest.

It was Doc.

"You are being released into the custody of your adult chaperone." The officer stated.

Mac's mouth opened but he faltered, staring dumbly. "You're … lettin' me go?"

"We have reason to believe you were the victim of provocation and simple battery, and you were acting in self-defense."

Slowly absorbing the information, the boxer looked to Doc like a man lost at sea would at the sight of a life-preserver. He desperately needed a smile more than anything else, no matter how feigned or forced or weak an attempt at reassurance, at kindness.

But Doc glanced back wearily, unsmiling.

"I don't ever want to see you back here again, son." The officer added. "Think smart next time."

Mac willed himself to nod and moved to his manager's side, his pulse thundering in his ears.

It felt almost surreal, tiredly pushing through the front door with him and feeling fresh air on his skin again. Night had fallen. But he soon discovered it was anything but quiet. In an instant they were swarmed by hollering paparazzi frantically snapping photos and news reporters with microphones and large camcorders hefted over their shoulders.

"What was going through your mind?"

"Mac, is it true you broke a young man's nose, and then sucker-punched him in the back of the head?"

With one arm both guiding and shielding Mac, Doc sidled determinedly through the masses, using his bulk to help pave them a path. "Don't answer 'em, Mac." He warned, catching a glimpse of his protégé's expression. "They're just tryin' to ruffle your feathers. Try t'keep your head down."

It was a long way back to their hotel.

They barely managed to flag down a cab and escape, slamming the door on the paparazzi and rolling up the windows before they pressed in too close like rioters looking to rock the car onto its roof. The cabbie hit the gas and Mac wanted to believe that the chaos behind them. But when they paid the fare and stepped out not one hundred feet from the hotel's entrance, some two dozen protesters were ready for them.

"There he is!" One of them thrust his finger incriminatingly at Mac.

"How'd he get the fuck out of there?"

"Hey! Think you're a big shot New Yorker, punching a guy in the face 'cause he's a Macho fan? That's real classy - that's real sportsmanship right there, man! They should have totally locked your ass away with some big guy. That'd teach you!"

Crumpled cans arced over Doc's head. The third barely missed him.

"Go back to the Bronx!"

A soft drink container suddenly bounced heavily against Mac's shoulder, cold cola splashing onto him.

"Keep going, son." Doc urged, as the kid's back went rigid. "Keep going."