She didn’t ask about that either. He ate slowly, cut his food into even pieces, chewed without rushing. His hands were large, scarred across the knuckles, but they moved with a strange precision, the way a surgeon handles a scalpel.

There was a discipline in his smallest gestures that didn’t match the grease under his fingernails.

At the table across the food court, a different kind of energy was building.

Brett Lawson had just won the state karate championship three hours earlier, his fourth consecutive title. He sat surrounded by eight students from his dojo. All of them wore matching black warm-up jackets with Lawson Combat Academy across the back. Empty beer bottles lined the table.

Brett’s gold trophy sat next to a half-eaten plate of nachos.

Brett was the kind of man who filled a room just by standing in it. Thick neck, wide shoulders, forearms roped with veins.

He had been training since he was eleven. His record stood at 36 fights, 36 wins, zero losses. Local newspapers called him the wall. He believed every word. Tonight he felt untouchable. The belt was his.

The crowd had chanted his name. His students worshipped him. And the beer was making everything louder and brighter. He cracked his knuckles and scanned the room looking for anything that would keep the high going.

He was telling the story of his championship fight for the third time when he noticed Curtis. A black man. Alone. Sitting quietly in a booth by the window. Grease-stained jacket. Work boots. No friends. No family. No one watching his back. Brett’s eyes narrowed.

“Who let that in?” he said just loud enough for his table to hear. Two students laughed. One glanced over at Curtis and shrugged. Brett didn’t shrug. He stared. Something about Curtis bothered him. Maybe it was the calm.

Maybe it was the way Curtis sat so still while everyone else moved. Or maybe Curtis was black and alone, and Brett needed someone weaker to feel even bigger. Whatever the reason, Brett set down his beer, pushed back his chair, and started walking toward Curtis’s booth.

Nora saw him coming. Her hand tightened around the coffee pot. She had seen Brett in this rest stop before. She knew exactly what that walk meant.

Brett reached Curtis’s booth in six steps. He didn’t sit down. He stood over him, arms crossed, trophy champion posture on full display.