His phone buzzed. Then Drew’s. Then Megan’s.

Drew glanced at his screen and frowned.

“Uh, Owen?”

“What?”

“You might want to see this.”

The video was fourteen seconds long. It began with Bryce standing squarely in front of Owen, arms spread wide. Owen appeared to say something, but the audio had been replaced by a pulsing musical track. Bryce took a step. The camera jolted. Owen moved, a hand flashed, and Bryce dropped out of frame. The last three seconds looped the fall in slow motion.

Across the screen, in enormous white letters, were the words:

OLD MAN SNEAKS MMA CHAMP AT JULY FOURTH FESTIVAL.

At the bottom was a caption from Devin’s account: Somebody’s grandpa needs to be stopped. Full story soon.

The number beneath the video was climbing so rapidly that Drew thought the app was malfunctioning.

“That’s not the beginning,” Megan said.

“No.”

“Where’s the shove? Where’s Caleb?”

“Not in that clip.”

Drew scrolled. Comments rolled past faster than he could read them. Some congratulated Owen for humbling an arrogant fighter. Others called him a coward for striking first. Several made jokes about the missing fingers visible in one frame. More than a few demanded a rematch. None of the people commenting seemed concerned about the nine-year-old boy who had started the chain of events by dropping mustard.

“Don’t read them,” Owen said.

Megan put the phone down. “I’m not reading them. I’m looking at what someone did to you.”

The difference mattered to her. Somebody had taken a frightening incident involving her son and father and turned it into a product small enough to watch while standing in line for coffee.

Across town, Bryce Colton sat on an emergency-department bed with a cold pack against his jaw. A doctor had warned him about concussion symptoms, told him not to train, and instructed Simone to watch for changes that would require immediate medical attention. Bryce was irritated by the questions and more irritated by the answers he could not remember.

Devin stood beside the bed grinning at his phone.

“Bro, we’re past a hundred thousand views.”

Bryce looked at him. “For what?”

“For the fight.”

“It wasn’t a fight.”

“That makes it better. You got cheap-shotted by somebody’s grandpa. We can build a whole comeback around it.”

Simone, seated in the corner, looked up from the discharge paperwork.

“He didn’t cheap-shot you,” she said.

Devin shrugged. “Nobody knows that.”

Bryce did. He remembered the shove, the warning, the punch he had thrown. The rest was an ugly gap in his memory ending with strangers looking down at him.

He should have told Devin to remove the caption.

Instead he asked, “How many views now?”