In the living room, Larry was quietly stacking wooden blocks. He was building a wall, meticulously aligning the edges.
"You okay, buddy?" Agrippa called out.
Larry paused, looked at the kitchen, and gave a small nod before returning to his architecture. He found order in the blocks. Agrippa wished he could find order so easily. His mind was racing. He knew the type of kids at the park. They were bruised, embarrassed, and likely vindictive. The peace he had fought so hard to build for his son felt suddenly fragile.
Sleep eluded him. Agrippa lay on his lumpy mattress, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. The brief burst of violence had awakened ghosts.
He remembered the blinding halogen lights of the octagon, the smell of canvas and sweat, the deafening roar of a crowd that only loved him when he was inflicting or enduring pain. He remembered the sickening pop of his ACL seven years ago, the pain that radiated up his thigh, and the realization that his worth to the world had just expired.