The silence that followed the strike was heavy, broken only by the persistent drum of the rain against the plastic roof and the frantic, shallow gasps of Britney and Caleb. Harper remained rooted in her stance. She did not adjust her clothes. She did not wipe the rainwater from her forehead. She simply breathed. Four seconds in, four seconds out. She was listening. To the untrained eye, she looked like a statue. To Arthur, her instructor, she would look like a loaded spring. Her weight was perfectly distributed, 60 percent on the front leg, 40 on the back. Her hands were up, relaxed but ready, hovering near her chin. She was blind, but she held the center of the room.
“What did you do?” Britney finally shrieked. Her voice cracked, pitching upward into true panic. “Caleb, what did she do to him?” Caleb’s canvas sneakers scuffed nervously against the pavement. Harper tracked the sound. He was pacing a tight half-circle to her right, trying to find an angle, trying to understand what he had just witnessed. Bully arithmetic is simple. Numbers plus physical dominance equals victory. Harper had just broken the math. “I… I don’t know,” Caleb stammered. The bravado had completely evaporated from his voice. “She just hit him.”
“He’s bleeding,” Britney cried out. “Logan, Logan, baby, get up.” Logan stirred, his heavy boots dragging weakly against the concrete, but he couldn’t find his center of gravity. His equilibrium was shot. The back fist had connected directly with the temporomandibular joint, sending a violent shock wave into his inner ear. His brain was currently rebooting. “You broke his jaw, you crazy bitch!” Caleb spat. The fear in his voice was rapidly curdling into defensive anger. The kind of anger born of humiliation. He was a young man in front of a girl, and another girl had just humiliated the alpha of their pathetic little trio.
Harper felt the subtle shift in the air pressure as Caleb stopped pacing. He squared his shoulders. “Don’t,” Harper said quietly. Her voice was devoid of malice. It was an objective statement of fact, a warning sign posted on a high-voltage fence. “You’re blind,” Caleb sneered, though the tremor in his throat betrayed him. “You got a lucky shot. He wasn’t ready.” “He snapped my cane,” Harper replied, her tone level. “The encounter is over. Walk away.” “You don’t tell me what to do,” Caleb barked.
Harper heard the squeak of his cheap rubber soles compress against the concrete as he shifted his weight to his back foot. He was winding up. He didn’t know how to fight. He was telegraphing his intent like a neon sign. He breathes in when he loads the punch. Arthur’s voice echoed in her mind. Amateurs always hold their breath when they strike. They think it gives them power. It just makes them rigid. Harper heard the sharp intake of Caleb’s breath through his nose. She felt the heavy, clumsy displacement of air as he lunged forward, throwing a wide, looping haymaker aimed somewhere at her head. It was a barroom punch. Wide, slow, and entirely reliant on momentum.
