Grandpa always said bad things come in threes. If they were still on speaking terms, Brad would call him up asking for advice. As it was, Brad was completely alone and unsure about his next steps.

The man at the club decided to press charges. It was shocking, but Brad swallowed his anger and nodded at the officer, and started searching for lawyers. It turned out that hiring professional help would wring his wallet so dry it would run out of money and offer only sand instead. Now, Brad had to accept help from an overworked, stressed-out public defender as he pleaded not guilty of assault and battery.

He was trying to take a girl home without her consent, Brad thought, wondering how he could be judged for stepping in. He tried to bolster himself up by thinking that the jury would take his side, but the more he researched, the bleaker his view became. The man he was going up against was the son of a prominent politician. He had endless coffers for high-powered lawyers who could beat down his defenses and twist his truths into whatever tale they wanted to tell. It was a hopeless situation, and the more Brad mulled it over, the more his taste buds tingled for a drug that could whisk his worries away.

That might put him in an even worse situation.

Brad paced around his empty apartment, glaring at the floor as he struggled to bat away his frenzied thoughts. He couldn't go back to work; the dojo was closed for Labor Day. All of his friends would only want to party, and he had to avoid that for the time being. There was nothing he could think of to do, so he wandered through the small rooms, cleaning aimlessly, looking over his cluttered refrigerator full of drawings his karate students had gifted to him over the past four years.

A stained calendar hung on the dirty side. Brad flipped through it, absentmindedly noting the different events: a date night written back in January, a court case appointment in May, holidays and birthdays, and everything in-between. Near the end, the first two months of the next year were mostly blank, except for a note on February 13th, written in his ex-girlfriend's hand: "This will be Lisa's 13th birthday! We should plan something special since she missed her 12th."

The thought gave him pause. Although his partner was long gone, she had a good point. Lisa hadn't had a decent party in years, and she'd spent her last birthday shivering on the streets in god knows what town. It might be fun to plan a party ahead of time, invite some friends and buy a nice cake from a fancy bakery. As Brad thought about it, images of vivid balloons, chocolate cakes, and bountiful presents shooed away nightmares of expensive legal fees and assault charges. Instead, he started thinking about who he could invite and what gifts Lisa would like.

He would have to invite the BACA members who helped Lisa through the past seven months; that was a given. Lisa had grown attached to them and gained a found family of strong and supportive people who encouraged her to be the best version of herself. He could invite some of the kids from his martial arts classes; a few friendly and outgoing students came to mind. Maybe they could be a good influence on Lisa, who spent so much of her time holed up in her room, reading books and ignoring most of the world.

Now that he thought about it, Lisa didn't mention making any friends in her new classes. Grandpa had transferred Lisa to a different school, which was a whole town away from her old one; he wanted to give her a new start, far away from the gang of girls she constantly got into fights with. Despite his reasoning, Grandpa constantly grumbled under his breath about having to drive an extra half an hour in the mornings. Then, Lisa would snap that he didn't have to drive her in the first place since she could take the bus or hitch a ride.

It was depressing to see how little had changed between them.

"You're his favorite," Lisa told him, years ago, accusation in her eyes. "He loves you more than he loves me."

"That's not true."

"That's a fact," she insisted. "He's always going after me, policing my every move. He doesn't do that to you!"

"It's because he's worried about you," Brad said. "He wants to make sure you're okay."

"It doesn't feel like it! It feels like I'm a criminal!"

At the time, Brad thought she was being a dramatic preteen. Now that he had the full story, and he knew that Grandpa had dismissed her when she said Marty hurt her, the memory stung. Maybe she was right, and Grandpa had been too hard on her.

Brad remembers sitting with him on the front porch one night, swinging on rocking chairs as they drank beer to the soundtrack of crickets.

"Sometimes, it's hard to be around her," Grandpa said. He didn't often vent, so at the time, Brad was proud. He liked feeling worthy of trust, liked being a man someone strong like Grandpa could confide in. "She reminds me so much of her namesake."

"Namesake? What do you mean?" Brad had asked.

"My ex-wife," he sighed, throwing back a gulp of beer. He squinted, either at the taste or the memory of his long-dead spouse. "Martin named your sister after his mother. Did you know that?"

Brad shook his head. "No. He rarely talked about her."

"She wasn't a woman worth talking about," Grandpa said. Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. "No, that's not fair. He just... she... they had a strange relationship. Too damn close. Disturbing is what it was."

Brad pursed his lips. "What do you mean?"

"He was always clinging to her. A sniveling, needy mama's boy. And she had the backbone of a gummy bear. Gave him everything he wanted, even if it was—" He paused. "You know what I saw him doing, one time? Saw him leaning over her while she was sleeping. Their faces were so close. He was so fixated on her, the bastard didn't know I was in the doorway. Then he kissed her and woke her up. Instead of yelling at him and smacking him away, as a good mom would have, she asked why he did it."

Grandpa stopped talking. His weathered features were drawn in confusion, and his eyes looked strained like he had seen something disturbing. Brad wasn't sure if it was right to pry, but he was curious. He had never imagined his dad as a little boy before; Marty was always a titan in his mind, large and godlike and all-powerful. It was hard to see him as a little boy kissing his sleeping mom. "What happened?"

"He said he loved her and wanted to be closer to her." Now Grandpa's lips were twisted in disgust. "Well, that was the first time I caught them, but he always wanted to be closer. I pulled him aside and told him not to do that shit again, that it wasn't normal, and the sneaky fucker said he understood. Then I caught him in bed with her, and he was— he was—" He took another deep sip, and Brad could see the anger in his eyes, sharp and raw.

"She was sleeping, or at least pretending to. And he was watching her, moving his hand under the cover, like he was... you know. I was so mad, I grabbed my wife by her long, red braid and jerked her out of bed. I asked her why the fuck she thought that was acceptable, why she let our son sleep with her and do those kinds of things. She kept sputtering out stupid excuses, but I could see it in her eyes. It was all her fault."

Age had shrunken the skin on his hands; they looked frail now, with the bones of his knuckles jutting out of papery flesh, but Brad noted the size of his meaty palm, the thickness of his long fingers. He could imagine those hands decades ago, strong with youth and violent with righteous anger. He imagined them winding through a woman's hair and jerking her by the scalp until she was a trembling mess on the floor. Now, the loose skin trembled with rage. He was lost in his memories. Brad touched his shoulder, and Grandpa met his eyes, took a deep breath, and returned to the present.

"At least, I thought it was her fault at the time. I did hit her," he admitted, his voice lowering. He cleared his throat and went on: "But back then, a husband was allowed to do it. Men were expected to keep their women in line, you know? And I couldn't believe my son would be that fucked up. I thought it was her. I thought she... wanted him to. So I blamed her. Because it was easier to think she was in the wrong than accept that my son... my boy was..." He stopped talking.

Brad stared at him, unsure of what to say. Inside his skull, confusing thoughts bounced around his mind. Nothing Grandpa was saying made sense. It was like trying to shove together puzzle pieces that didn't match.

"I think I realized it eventually. How fucked up he was," Grandpa murmured. "I would handle it differently now. Lisa was always spineless. Her parents raised her to be a 'yes man.' They taught her a good girl is obedient and quiet and does whatever she's told. I liked her at first, but then I realized how weak she was. My wife couldn't say no to anyone, least of all her own son. She was too stupid to realize what was going on, I think. So I blamed her. I called her a monster, a pervert, a predator. Everything I could think of, I called her. And the dumb bitch believed me." He sighed. "She died thinking I hated her."

He fell into silence after that, and Brad followed his example, swallowing a gulp of beer to wash away the conflict twisting in his gut. At the time, he couldn't make sense of the jumbled family picture his grandfather painted. Now, he understands perfectly. Marty was rotten to the core, and a noxious family dynamic only exacerbated his sickness. The idea made Brad feel ill. How could he escape his family's inherent corruption? Was misery written into his DNA? Did Lisa and I ever even stand a chance?

Brad has to shake his head to ward off the despair that bubbles up. He wants to be more than just an Armstrong. He wants to be a big brother. He wants to save Lisa.

Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, he thought. What should we do for your birthday party?

Although the date was far away, Brad figured it was never too late to start planning. What was I thinking about? Oh, who to invite. Right. He racks his brain for more people; he wants this to be a big, fun celebration, something Lisa will remember for a long time in the future. She's only had him and Grandpa to rely on all her life, and Brad realizes more and more how fucked up they are, how poisonous the Armstrong family truly is. They need some fresh blood, some new faces. But who was trustworthy?

The best person he can think of is Rick, but he was countless miles away. Then again, it's been such a long time since they've seen each other. Four years ago, the old crew reunited when they all graduated from high school. It was incredible to see Rick, Sticky, and Cheeks again, and Brad smiled harder than he had in a very long time. The three had taken a road trip over to his town, and he was touched at their effort. They were even happy to see Lisa again. "Do you remember that time we all took care of her?" Cheeks had asked, his green eyes bright with happiness at the memory. "That was pretty fun. We had no clue what we were doing!"

"We had some clue," Rick protested, smiling weakly.

"Yeah, she was in good hands," Sticky added.

Lisa didn't know them from Adam, and when Brad insisted she'd met them before, she looked at him like he had three heads. "I sure don't remember them!"

"Well, to be fair, you were just a baby," Cheeks said, and that was the end of it.

It was crazy to think that four years had flown by. Now Brad was 22 and teaching martial arts to local preteens, while Rick and Cheeks were off in fancy office jobs, wearing pink suits and schmoozing customers. Rick just had a baby, last time they talked. It was bizarre imagining a miniature version of his best friend. I guess that's what happens when you live so far away, he thought sadly. You miss the important things. Then, his mind perked up: But there's no reason we can't get in touch again.

Soon Brad's phone was in his hand, and he was dialing his old friend's number. Maybe Rick could also be a good source of advice for his legal situation. He always seemed to know the answers to complicated problems like that. When Rick's cheerful voice filled his ears, Brad immediately relaxed and fell into the comfortable, close conversation between lifelong friends.

"Junior's already walking! Can you believe that?" Rick was gushing. "He's just the cutest little boy. He looks just like me! Of course, a much tanner version, haha. But I swear, he's got my face! You should see him, Brad. The sweetest kid in the world, really."

"You should bring him over for Lisa's next birthday party," Brad said, smiling. "It's a long time away, but I wanted to give you some time to prepare."

"Aww, Lisa!" Brad could hear the smile in Rick's voice. "Man, it's been forever since I last saw her. How's she been?"

"... She's doing all right," Brad lied. If Rick could hear the drop in his tone, he didn't comment on it. Instead, he plunged into an enthusiastic update on their friends' lives.

"You have to invite Sticky and Cheeks, too," he said. "I'm sure they'd love to come around to see you again. How cool that you've got your own dojo! Now you're teaching even more people the Armstrong style. How young are most of your students?"

"They're around 12 and 13. The same age you guys were," Brad said.

"Aw, that's a shame. I heard some studios will teach much younger kids. Junior would look so cute in a gi, I think!" Rick laughed.

"Heh, who knows? Maybe I'll add some new classes. Rick Jr. could be an inspiration," Brad joked. "But yeah, I'll be sure to invite the boys over, too. It would be great to have the old gang back together."

"Oh, and don't forget to invite Joan!" Rick said. "Last time we came over, she was pretty upset that she wasn't invited, too."

"Huh? But hasn't she been busy with university? There's no way she could've made the time to come," Brad responded. He hadn't spoken to her in years. Sometimes he wondered if she had already forgotten him. From Rick's account, she was in an endless rush of classes, conventions, speeches, and inventions. Surely she couldn't fit a little trip into her cluttered schedule. He didn't see the point in reaching out to her.

"Well, I mean, she is really busy, but I'm not kidding you, Brad." His voice took on a more serious note. "She seemed genuinely hurt you didn't invite her last. She thinks you don't like her."

"What?" Brad blinked. "Where the hell did she get that idea?"

"I mean, she told me you snapped at her last time she called," Rick said.

"I can't even remember the last time she called."

"It was a few years ago, I think," Rick said. "But she told me you yelled at her to stop calling so much because it was gumming up your voicemail. You should really give her a call. Even if she can't come, she'll appreciate the sentiment. She talks about you guys all the time, you know."

"All the time? How often do you see her?"

"We meet up every once in a while to grab breakfast." There was a smile in Rick's voice. "It's kinda nice. The four of us will meet up and we always get the same orders. It reminds me of when we were in high school and we all sat together at lunch."

"I hadn't realized you guys were that close." Brad didn't hide the sadness in his voice. Although he'd been sure to keep in close contact with his old friends, he never stopped to imagine what their school days were like without him. He always thought he was the glue keeping Joan to the group, so the fact that she stuck around the crew struck him as a surprise. From her complicated way of speaking and her obsession with science, he always imagined she would have run off to join the nerds or something like that. It was odd to imagine her as a grown-up, relaxing in a coffee booth with Rick, Sticky, and Cheeks. Whenever he thought of her, he saw that chubby, long-faced twelve-year-old with coke bottle glasses and an intense gleam in her eyes.

"Yeah," Rick said. "It's been nice. She finally graduated from university, and now she's pursuing her master's. It's pretty impressive. She's so busy that without those breakfasts, we'd probably never see her. Thank goodness for tradition, right?" When Brad didn't answer, he went on: "Anyway, I'll be sure to mark down Lisa's birthday in my calendar. Be sure to call the others, right?"

"Sure thing. Take care, Rick."

"Will do, friend-o! Right back atcha."

It was great to hear from Sticky and Cheeks again. Both of his childhood friends sounded upbeat and happy to hear from him. Cheeks was trying to make it as a comedian, but so far he was only booked for amateur nights and other, less prestigious events. Still, he was enjoying himself, and he spent his days working as a salesman for a women's shoe store. Cheeks always considered himself a ladies' man, and judging from his claims, he was doing especially well in his day job and was on the fast track to being promoted to manager. Despite that, he was holding out hope for his big break in the comedy scene. Brad wished him well and felt a rush of happiness when Cheeks promised to show up next year. "I'm looking forward to seeing you again, man! Maybe we'll get another spar in, for old times' sake?" Brad laughed at that.

His conversation with Sticky was a little less jovial. Of the three of Brad's oldest friends, Sticky was the most perceptive, and unlike Rick, he never held anything back. "Hey man, is something bothering you?" He asked within three minutes of their call. "You sound... heavy."

"Heavy?" Brad repeated.

"Yeah. Like something bad happened." He paused, and when Brad didn't speak, he asked, "Is it about Lisa?"

Jesus, how does he know? Brad wondered, but instead of answering, he said, "Hey, speaking of Lisa, she's got a birthday party I want to invite you to..." From there, they kept his conversation to safe topics, but Brad got the feeling that when Sticky came over, he would probably be able to piece the puzzle together. He could probably be a detective if he wanted to; he had eerie analytical skills. As it was, Sticky was perfectly content working as a ride operator for a local amusement park.

"It's a lot more fun," Sticky explained. "Keeps me looking forward to every tomorrow, you know?"

It was a good thought that stuck in Brad's mind long after their call ended. Teaching the Armstrong style to his young students was a fun job that he always looked forward to. Maybe it was more important to focus on things that bring you happiness than things that are "right," he thought. Justice would be "right." Fulfilling his own potential in a better paying job might, objectively, seem like a better way to spend his time. But Brad genuinely enjoyed the way his life was going, except for the horrifying saga he'd been through in the courts for the past few months. Learning about everything that happened to Lisa tore him up inside. Why focus on revenge? He thought. What's that old saying—two wrongs don't make a right?

As Brad mulled over the philosophy of revenge versus fulfillment, he searched for Joan's phone number. If what Rick said was true, she would be happy to speak with him. He didn't remember her very well, except as a strangely earnest presence who stubbornly stuck by him for an intense year, but it might be nice to talk with her. Since he'd forgotten to ask Rick for legal advice, Joan would be the next best person to turn to; she had a knowledgeable head on her shoulders.

When he reached for the phone to call her, it started ringing of its own accord. Brad stared for the phone for a moment, wondering if Rick, Sticky, or Cheeks decided to call him back. Maybe they forgot something? However, when he held the receiver to his ear, out came a voice he never thought he'd hear again.

"Bradley?"

It couldn't be.

"Are you there?"

There was no way.

"I can hear you breathing."

I must be dreaming.

"Goddammit, answer me!"

"Dad?" Brad cursed himself for not hiding the tremor in his voice. He felt like a little kid again, standing flat against the wall with eyes full of fear. It was pathetic; even though his body was strong and toned, his mind was that of a trembling child.

"Now you answer," Marty sneered. "Took long enough. Listen, son, I've gotta talk to you—"

"Son?" When Brad found his voice, he shouted into the phone. "You call me son after everything you've done?"

"Bradley!" Marty's voice was as hard as flint. "I don't have time to argue. I was talking with my lawyer, and he said there's a good chance I'm gonna be judged guilty. If I go to prison, there's no one to look after the house. I can't leave things unfinished. You need to get the family's things in order—"

"No."

"What?"

"No." Brad gripped the receiver so hard his fingers ached. "I don't need to do anything for you. I'm not your son."

Marty snickered, and the sound drew waves of goosebumps over Brad's skin. The arrogance. The audacity. The fact that Marty thought he could call him up — after a lifetime of beat downs, insults and pain—after traumatizing Lisa in their home—after branding her a liar in front of the court — Brad's mind went blank. "I will never help you."

"Really." There was a smile in Marty's voice, but Brad couldn't feel a whiff of humor. "Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better. But you're an Armstrong through and through. You've got my blood, Bradley. You'll always be my son."

The threat was like a sickening punch straight to the sternum. For a second, Brad forgot to breathe. Blankness consumed his mind, and his mouth said something he couldn't remember. Then Marty said, "You worthless piece of shit," and those were the last words he said, for Brad slammed his phone down and picked up his car keys.

What's there to lose? Roger whispered in his ear.

Carbon dioxide filled his puny garage.

It was all her fault, Marty murmured.

Brad's car tore into the street, nearly hitting an oncoming vehicle. He ignored the loud honks and jerked forwards, forcing his ratty old Jeep into a lurching speed.

Back in my day, Grandpa said, men were expected to keep their women in line.

Marty lived almost a hundred miles away. Lisa had to spend endless hours on the bus to get there and back, but bus drivers have to follow speeding regulations, and Brad didn't give a shit.

I called Grandpa asking for help, Lisa cried, but he never came.

He ground his teeth. Pushed the pedal to the floor and kicked up a dust storm behind his screeching tires.

Any other man would notice the tranquil blue skies, the fluffy white clouds winding above. Not Brad. To him, the earth was a bright, bloody red, the clouds twisting intestines that gobbled up the earth and hung like a noose above his head. He felt like a trapped animal, claustrophobic and terrified, ready to bite and claw and fight his way to freedom. It's all his fault, Brad thought. Marty's the reason I'm so fucked up.

It was Marty's fault Brad lost his cool and beat up a rich boy. It was Marty's fault Brad was quiet and withdrawn in school, why he struggled to open up to friends and form good relationships with girls who were dumb enough to pursue him romantically. It was Marty's fault Brad felt worthless, why he stiffened at sudden touches and stilled when he saw bright Hawaiian shirts at the store. It was Marty's fault Brad felt fundamentally wrong, forever behind his peers, why he never felt comfortable unless he was high off a cocktail of drugs.

All the way to his childhood home, Brad's heart felt heavy with regret. He mourned his younger self, the normal boy who could have been, and the fucked-up shell his father spit out. All of Grandpa's help could only do so much when he had a mom who killed herself and a dad who wished he were never born. They defined his early years.

Time slipped by like sand between his fingers. Distance was nothing but a precursor to revenge; every minute only ripened the rage Brad would unleash upon a man who would never receive the punishment he deserved.

He deserved the electric chair.

What he would get is another ten years in prison. He'd probably get off early on good behavior again, the evil motherfucker.

Brad barely noticed his childhood home emerging over the hill; it was a shabby specter upon a bleak and isolated patch of land. Instead of rotting in a cell, he's probably sitting on that fucking couch, Brad thought.

He was right.

When he kicked open the door and saw Marty, the world burned.

Brad pounced on the sleeping figure, threw blow after blow until his fingers were numb and his father was screaming like a stuck pig. Marty never saw it coming—was sleeping deeply when he should have been tossing and turning from his sins—but he woke to a punch in the face and an encore of fists that broke his nose and stained his teeth scarlet.

Brad beat the monster, which leaped off the couch and scrambled to defend itself, but he fell to the floor with a thump. A half-asleep old man could barely defend himself against a fighter in his prime, inflamed and thoughtless and desperate to maim.

The thing on the floor wasn't a man. It was misshapen, a writhing, fleshy mess of swollen skin and seeping wounds and raw, raspy screams that rang through the rotted walls. Some sort of vile, worthless, joyless mutant. It was a pathetic sight, but some small part of Brad was happy. Now the outside matched the ugliness within.

He lifted a foot, and the creature flinched. Brad let the fear thicken, let the threat linger in the monster's mind. Then, he lowered his foot and left Marty to shake and wallow and stir in a pool of his worthless, poisonous, Armstrong blood.