Then he looked at Marcus.
For a moment, something changed in his expression. It was not anger, exactly. It was the distant look of a man who had just heard a familiar sound from a life he had spent decades trying to leave behind.
Then it disappeared.
“Three punches?” Samuel asked.
“Three.”
“To the body?”
“That's what I said.”
“And you pay me afterward?”
Marcus laughed.
“Unless you decide to lie down and take a nap halfway through.”
The crowd roared.
Samuel set his coffee on a nearby table.
He thought about the combine sitting uselessly in his machinery shed. He thought about the wheat bending beneath the late-summer wind, about the bills stacked beside the kitchen telephone, and about the message his daughter had left that afternoon asking whether everything was all right.
He had told her it was.
He had been telling her that for months.
Five hundred dollars would not solve every problem he had. It would not repair the barn roof or pay the entire mortgage. But it would get the combine running, and that might be enough to save the harvest.
He looked at Marcus again.
“Are there any rules besides the ones you've mentioned?”
Marcus grinned.
“Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you.”
A few people laughed nervously.
Samuel did not.
“That's not what I asked.”
For the first time, Marcus seemed slightly annoyed.
“No hitting back. No moving away. No grabbing me. You take the punches, and you get paid. Simple.”
Samuel nodded once.
“Then I have one condition.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
“What's that?”
“When it's over, we shake hands.”
The crowd burst into laughter again.
Marcus slapped his thigh.
“You want to shake my hand? After I hit you?”
“If you're still willing.”
“Old man, I'll shake your hand with the other four hundred and ninety-five dollars still in my pocket.”
Samuel picked up his coffee, took one final sip, and placed the empty cup beside the table.
“Then let's get it over with.”
He climbed the two steps into the ring.
The laughter softened as people watched him move. His boots made almost no sound against the canvas. He walked toward the center and stopped beneath the lights.
Marcus followed, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
Up close, the difference between them was unmistakable. Marcus possessed the thick shoulders, powerful torso, and restless energy of a professional fighter. Samuel looked leaner and older, with a narrow waist and a body shaped by years of physical labor rather than modern training.
The referee for the evening, a retired amateur boxer named Dennis Cole, stepped between them.
“Marcus, this is an exhibition,” Dennis said quietly. “Three controlled body shots. Nothing to the head. You understand?”
Marcus rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Dad.”
Dennis ignored the remark and turned to Samuel.
“You can stop this at any point. You say the word, and we're done.”
Samuel nodded.
“Understood.”
Dennis looked into his eyes for a second longer than necessary.
There was something unsettling about the old man's calmness. Most people who stepped into a ring with Marcus were nervous. Even experienced fighters displayed some sign of tension before taking a punch from a man known for his explosive power.
Samuel showed none.
His breathing was steady. His shoulders were relaxed. His hands hung naturally at his sides.
He did not look brave.
He looked as though he were waiting for a tractor to finish warming up.
Dennis stepped back.
Marcus moved into position.
“Ready, grandpa?”
Samuel met his gaze.
“Whenever you are.”
The crowd fell quiet enough for the industrial fans to become audible.
Marcus planted his feet and rotated his shoulders, preparing to deliver a controlled right hook to the body. He had thrown that punch thousands of times in training. He knew how to generate power from his hips, how to tighten his fist, and how to drive force through a target without wasting movement.
He also knew how to make a punch hurt.
His intention was to deliver enough force to frighten the old man, not enough to injure him seriously. That was what he told himself, anyway.
He stepped forward.
The punch landed against Samuel's left side with a deep, hollow thud.
Samuel's shirt shifted beneath the impact.
His body moved less than an inch.
He did not grunt.
He did not stumble.
He did not even look down.
Marcus pulled his hand back, momentarily surprised by the firmness of the contact.
The crowd responded with a mixture of cheers and disappointed laughter.
“That's one!” somebody shouted.
Samuel remained where he was.
Marcus circled half a step, studying him.
“You all right?”
“Fine.”
“Don't pretend you're tougher than you are.”
Samuel looked at him steadily.
“I'm not pretending anything.”
The answer irritated Marcus more than a boast would have.
He threw the second punch harder.
This time, the impact sounded sharper. A few people near the ring winced. Samuel's torso compressed slightly beneath the blow, but his feet stayed planted.
For the briefest moment, Marcus felt something unexpected travel through his knuckles.