The doctor, whose name is Gary, makes me nervous. His manner is calm and cool, but I do not like that he takes the privilege of touching me. I think he takes his occupation too seriously. He calls you Ross, which must be your last name.

The nurse is kind, and the first female presence I have been around in days. I am soothed somewhat by her, even though she is the one wielding the needle.

The sewing of my torn womanhood is excruciating. I know it is necessary, and stitches are a part of Western medicine, but that does not make it any less painful. My eyes are tightly closed, but you, Barney, are close enough I can feel your body heat.

When I flip my hand over, your palm is there to cover it. My very being responds to it with a surge in stamina for the pain, which scares me. Who are you, Barney Ross, to have such an affect on me?

I find myself telling you about my parents, and I am a little surprised that you care. I am reminded that I still do not know your motivation for saving me, or being so kind. What is your angle, Barney Ross?

What do you want with me?

I break down in the relative quiet of the American vehicle you drive. When you assure me that you are there for me, my heart squeezes in a new way. I do not recognize the feeling your words inspire. In the course of the flood running down my face for the better part of the moon's reign, that foreign notion is washed into the recesses of my mind.

This is the most raw I have ever been in my life. I feel like my soul has been blistered with wear, and sandpapered bare. I feel naked with clothes on, like my heart is ripped out even though it still beats, lost and floating even though gravity still holds me.

They raped me. All of them. I want to die when I think of how many. I had my eyes closed for most, so I will more easily forget them, but the ones whose faces I saw, contorted with violence and obscene pleasure above me, will linger for what feels like eternity.

You hold me as long as I cry, patient and sympathetic, and then lead me outside to watch the sun.

I am blearily staring into space, wondering why you brought me out here. It is just the sun: warming the air, painting the sky like it does every day...

Oh. I think I understand now. You are trying to say, without cheap words, that a new day has started. You mean to say that I can leave the terrible night behind me.

The sun strengthens me. Just like you intended.

Your home, now that I can take it all in, is a mishmash of military goods, old things, and things being fixed. I am distantly fascinated by American living. I thought it would be more opulent somehow, like the glossy photos I have seen.

You feed me solid food this time, and my mouth fills with so much water at the smell and taste that I want to cry again. I refrain, but do say thank you, because I know politeness is in order.

When you step out, my curiousity gets the better of me, and I carefully walk over to your small bookshelf. So many books! These would have been worth a fortune in my village!

I chose one that I have wanted to read ever since I heard the title: The Art of War, by Sun Tzu. Now, more than ever, I want to read about violence made into beauty.

You catch me, and I momentarily worry I have overstepped my bounds, but you seem happy that I have taken an interest.

Your behavior is peculiar. It implies I will be staying here, with you, for a while. When I examine my feelings on the matter, I find cautious excitement and relief. If you had run me off, where would I go? Who would I trust?

I get the feeling, even though you do not phrase it aloud, that you mean to let me stay here even beyond the healing of my wounds.

This is my home now, too. Unless and until I must go.

When you start to take apart the guns you brought in, I am hopelessly intrigued. I wander over carefully, my stitches pulling and my bruises throbbing, and you delight me secretly by pulling out a stool for me to sit on and watch.

I can not help myself. I ask many questions, and you answer all of them. You do not tire of me talking. I catch you smiling at me in a way I do not recognize, and I query, "What?"

You hide the smile again. "Nothin'."

When you ask me why I am interested, I am bemused by the obviousness of the answer. "Because I want to know what you know." It is true: you have an aura of power about you that I crave to imitate, absorb, inbibe. I have never had power in my life.

If I were honest with myself, that aura sings to me. It strikes a sweet chord somewhere unseen and shut away, and I silence its resonance viciously.

You take me firmly by the chin to ask if I am going to kill myself when you turn your back.

Come now, I thought that was obvious, too. "No," I reply evenly. I have been shaved down to the barest sliver of sanity and soul, but I am not going to stay this way. I believe, to my very core, that I will recover from this.

And the more that aura sings to me, the faster I will. Its song tastes like your soul weeping from your pores, so saturated are you by it. I cannot help how it draws me to you, like a moth with ragged wings to the blissful burn of the fire.

You step out of the shower, and when I sense your presence, I wake up completely. I am taken in by your body, though only your torso is bare to me.

So many scars: punctures and scratches and gashes and scrapes. White and pink and magenta with degrees of age and the care taken.

Your tattoos are a testament to your toughness, and I yearn to study them in detail. I get the feeling they tell your story better and more completely than you can.

I realize I am staring, and that you are letting me, and smile thinly. You continue on your way, and I doze again. Or, at least I try. That muscled chest swirled with your life's work and your history, dotted with beads of water, keeps me from napping completely.

You tap my boots, which you gave me, and I move. You lift my feet back onto your lap, and I can tell you worry you went too far. You need not be concerned. I have only known you less than two days, and your touch is like a balm to my aches, both inside and out.

You use a small box to turn on the bigger box, which I recognize as a television. I am stunned by the moving pictures. When you tease me, the tone makes my heart stutter. "Was this in your stories?"

I use the stutter to fuel my smile. "No."

I am removed from my own head, body, and myriad pains by the moving pictures. In a matter of minutes, I understand why Americans adore their screens so much. It can numb you, if I allow it, or it can instruct you, which I seek.

I get to try famous American coffee. You have put something sweet in it, sweet like the honey harvested in the jungle, but with less subtle interesting flavors. I still like it. For now, I want a little flatness, dullness, thoughtlessness and unfeeling. I need a rest from my troubles. I know they'll be there for me to pick back up.

Television and coffee: the perfect respite.

You try to get me to voice my opinion on where I want to sleep, but I am far, far too shy to speak my mind. Finally, you have me show you.

I think you are both flattered and mildly flustered by the idea of sleeping side by side. "Why there?" you ask.

I search myself for a word that encompasses both my feelings and my thoughts. "Safe." Yes, that works. Safe from the monsters that haunt the night, the spaces of my blinks, the shadows of my heart.

You are a complete and full safety I have never felt before. It is close to absurd, but I cannot argue with the evidence. I am still very lost, and I cannot apologize for something I need like air.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I whisper. The monsters are rising, taunting me, making me doubt your intentions.

"Because you deserve to be saved," you reply.

I feel the words wash over me like water, and try to quell the rising tide in me by removing my boots. I cannot do it: my stitches shoot pain through me.

You do it for me with gentleness not expected of such big hands. You hold me while I cry, bitter that I am surrounded by amazing prosperity, culture, beauty and richness, but that in the dark of the night it amounts to nothing.

In the dark, I am still tied down, screaming and violated. I am still a sliver of Meera, threatening to snap.

I work that emotion out of my system almost angrily, shoving the tears out like I have a quota to fill. When I have had enough of holding my own hand to the fire, I disentangle myself from your arms and curl up on the bed. You are surprised, but you cover me with the soft cloth sheets and climb into your own bed.

I drift off, feeling like I have been suctioned out inside.

Barney, present:

Yang arrives at 12:01.

"Barney," he greets, keying off his bike. He glances around. "Where is Meera?"

I unfold my arms and put my hands on my hips. "She's inside. I wanna talk to you, first."

The Asian sets his helmet on the seat of the bike. "Okay," he says neutrally. "I'm listening."

I wonder where to start. "I've got some concerns..."

"I see that."

"...and some rules. Or, hell, call 'em guidelines, whatever."

"Okay."

I catch on to his slightly patronizing tone, and give him a Look.

"Sorry, but you sound like a soccer mom," he grins. "No, go on, I am listening."

"I don't want her getting beat up, got it? She's been through enough shit." Yang doesn't know just how much, but I let the words hang for a minute so that he can guess.

He nods with cold understanding. "She's going to be learning how to throw punches. She will learn how to take them, if she hasn't already, on her own."

"She nearly rebroke her nose the other day, so no face shit."

"How'd she do that?" frowns the Asian.

"Desert Eagle to the face during target practice."

"Ouch." He squares off his smaller stature with me, for all the world like he is taking my issues to heart. "Barney, you'll be right there to intervene if anything doesn't suit you. But let me remind you, she's the one who expressed interest. She knows what she's getting into, or she would not have."

I sigh. There I go again, trying to slow the world down for you, when all you want to do is find and keep its pace. "Alright," I say definitively.

"Alright," replies Yang in the same tone.

The pact is made. We talk about where would be best to practice, and settle on the hangar bay, which is open. Since we won't be doing any throws or floor work, Yang says there's no need for mats. In fact, I notice he has brought no gloves or gear at all, and call him on it. "Why would I sanction mats? Do barfights have mats? Will carjackers let you pull on gloves? No. Barefisted and balls out, as they say," he declares. "No decorative forms, no crazy stuff that'll get her killed: practical, useful understanding that will grow with time."

I bite my tongue to keep from disagreeing, but it's a stretch. I silently remind myself he is the expert at hand-to-hand, and that unless he pisses me off, I should defer to his judgement.

"Yang's here," I say, poking my head in.

You're bouncing your knee impatiently on the couch, and leap up when I enter. "Did you scare him?" you deadpan.

You know me too well. "No. Just said 'hey' and all that."

The scent of bullshit makes you snort, but you let my protective inclinations and affronts to your pride slide. You slither past me, out the door. "Hi, Yang," you greet your instructor warmly, and with the slightest hint of apology.

"Hello, Meera. How have you been?" Yang replies, shaking your proffered hand. Oh, so you get pleasantries, and the longtime friend doesn't?

"Fine, thanks. You?"

"Also fine." I want to barf from the hospitality of it all. I thought he was here to teach you to fight, not sip tea and nibble petit fours. I mentally check myself: I'm still a bit surly at being named the punching bag. Is this Yang's payback for denying him extra pay for his mythical 'family'? Even though he recanted the family part, he insists to this day that he deserves handicap pay for being small. I will never understand Asians.

"When we talked at Tool's you mentioned a lot of stuff that might fit me," you start in. Yang's only had a taste of your voracious appetite for knowledge. I stand back and let you exact my revenge for me.

"We are starting from the ground up," informs the Asian. "First, basic punches to basic places. Ready, Barney?"

"Ready," I say affirmatively. Harry Houdini has nothing on me when it comes to taking punches.

Yang switches modes. "Stand there and put up your fists, then. Yes, like that. Meera, plant your feet like his, strong leg forward, perpendicular. Now Meera, see how his stomach is open? The first punch I want you to learn is the jab..."