"Did I force him onto the mat?"
"No."
"Did I ask him to grab me?"
"No."
"Did I continue after he went down?"
"No."
"Then I don't understand the complaint."
Rebecca smiled.
"Neither do I."
She hesitated before adding, "But I want you to be prepared. He may come here again."
Walter picked up the wrench.
"He can come here. I have work."
Rebecca watched him for a moment.
"Do you ever get tired of being this calm?"
Walter considered the question.
"Every day."
She laughed.
He returned to his work.
At 10:30, Marcus Vale arrived at the pavilion.
He was wearing a black sweatshirt and carrying a gym bag over one shoulder. His left knee made a faint clicking sound as he walked down the corridor.
He found Walter near the equipment storage room.
"Morning."
Walter looked over his shoulder.
"Morning, Marcus."
Marcus glanced at the repaired mop handle.
"Still fixing things?"
"Someone has to."
"How's the shoulder?"
Walter raised an eyebrow.
"Whose shoulder?"
"Dylan's."
"Ask Dylan."
Marcus smiled.
"I was asking whether you noticed anything else."
Walter returned to the shelf.
"His right shoulder was irritated. Possibly more than irritated. He was guarding it before he grabbed me."
"Could be a rotator cuff issue."
"Could be."
Marcus leaned against the doorway.
"I watched the video again."
Walter said nothing.
"More than once."
"That sounds like a waste of time."
"Probably."
Marcus waited.
Finally, he asked, "Where did you train?"
Walter moved a box of cleaning cloths.
"Different places."
"Where did you teach?"
"Different places."
"You're not making this easy."
"I wasn't trying to."
Marcus smiled, but his expression soon became serious.
"I saw the photograph in your office."
Walter stopped.
"Which photograph?"
"The old one. The seminar picture."
Walter looked at him.
"Why were you in my office?"
"Rebecca asked me to move a box of equipment."
"And you found the photograph?"
"It was on the wall."
Walter nodded.
"Then you saw it."
Marcus took a breath.
"North American Combat Systems. Senior instructor. That wasn't a small title."
"No."
"How long were you involved?"
Walter was quiet.
"Long enough."
Marcus looked toward the corridor.
"I don't want to pry."
"Then don't."
Marcus accepted the answer.
But he did not leave immediately.
"I've spent most of my adult life around combat sports," he said. "I've met champions, coaches, instructors, and people who talk like they invented fighting. I've also met a few people who understand what happens after someone gets hurt."
Walter looked at him.
"What happens?"
"Everyone remembers the person who won. Nobody remembers who was responsible for keeping the room safe."
Walter's expression softened slightly.
"That's true."
Marcus shifted his weight.
"You're not interested in returning to the mat?"
"No."
"Not even teaching?"
"No."
"Why?"
Walter placed the cloths on the shelf.
"Because I already know what happens when people stop listening."
Marcus did not ask another question.
He recognized the boundary.
Before leaving, he turned back.
"If you ever change your mind, I'd like to learn from you."
Walter looked at him.
"You already know plenty."
"Not enough."
"Nobody knows enough."
Marcus nodded.
Then he walked away.
Walter watched him disappear down the corridor.
For a moment, the old photograph seemed to occupy the entire room.
He remembered the seminar.
The bright lights.
The crowded mats.
The young instructors eager to prove themselves.
And one student whose name he had not spoken aloud in many years.
He turned away from the memory and picked up his cleaning supplies.
That afternoon, Dylan returned to Eastbrook.
He had told himself he was coming to speak with Rebecca.
That was partly true.
He also wanted to see Walter again.
The old man was cleaning the glass near the main entrance when Dylan walked in.
Walter noticed him in the reflection.
"Good afternoon."
Dylan stopped several feet away.
"Hello."
Walter continued wiping the glass.
Dylan glanced around.
"Is Rebecca here?"
"Office."
"Thank you."
He started walking, then stopped.
"Mr. Bell?"
Walter turned.
"Yes?"
"I wanted to ask you something."
"Go ahead."
Dylan hesitated.
"That movement you used at the exhibition. Where did you learn it?"
Walter folded the cleaning cloth.
"Training."
"Which system?"
"Several."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one I have."
Dylan looked frustrated.
"You're deliberately avoiding the question."
Walter placed the cloth in his bucket.
"No. I'm doing my job."
Dylan looked down at the bucket.
Then at the uniform.
"You know, people are saying all kinds of things about you."
"I don't read the comments."
"They think you're some kind of hidden master."
Walter gave a small shrug.
"People think many things."
"They want you to demonstrate again."
"I don't."
Dylan's jaw tightened.
"Why not?"
Walter studied him.
"Because you haven't understood the first demonstration."
Dylan stared.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you came here looking for a rematch when you should have been asking why you lost your balance."
Dylan's face reddened.
"I didn't lose a fight."
"No."
Walter picked up his bucket.
"You lost your balance."
He walked toward the corridor.
Dylan remained where he was.