At some point James’ car had been towed or stolen and we were walking along to the lot where it was likeliest to be.  We weren’t saying anything.  I was replaying the ways I had insulted James’ friends and fitting the night together into some kind of narrative.

A man about our age came running up from behind.  “Hell of a game,” he said and we agreed with him.  “Excellent game,” he said, “it was awesome.”  His eyes told me that many things were awesome in his book, and that many things were very bad indeed.

“Watch this,” he said and jogged on ahead of us.  He was moving quickly without much effort, feet bouncing as though warming up for an event.  Then he came to the figure far ahead of us.  I watched him, still running, take his fist far back behind and then level his fellow pedestrian in the side of the head.  Then he scampered, faster now, up over a small brick wall.

We came to the man still lying on the ground.  I shook him.  “Are you ok?” I said.

“Since when are you the humanitarian?” asked James.

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