Agrippa looked toward the park.
"I just wanted to take my son home."
"I believe you."
The sergeant handed him his identification.
"Go home."
Agrippa turned.
"Thank you."
As he opened the truck door, the sergeant called after him.
"Mr. Fisher."
Agrippa looked back.
"You did the right thing by stopping."
Agrippa nodded.
But he wasn't sure.
During the drive home, neither father nor son spoke.
The city passed outside the windshield.
Streetlights.
Gas stations.
Restaurants.
People walking dogs.
A bus stopping at an intersection.
Ordinary life.
Agrippa kept both hands on the steering wheel.
His knuckles were swelling.
His back screamed.
His knee felt unstable.
But the physical pain was easy.
It was the silence that hurt.
Finally, Larry spoke.
"Are they going to die?"
Agrippa's hands tightened.
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
Larry looked out the window.
"Good."
A minute passed.
Then:
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Why did you know how to fight?"
Agrippa stared at the road.
There it was.
The question he had spent years avoiding.
He could lie.
He had a hundred lies available.
He could say he learned boxing at a gym.
He could say he had worked security.
He could say he had fought when he was younger.
But Larry deserved the truth.
Just not all of it.
"I used to be a fighter."
Larry's head turned.
"A superhero?"
Agrippa almost laughed.
"No."
"A wrestler?"
"No."
"What kind?"
Agrippa breathed out.
"The kind that fought in a cage."
Larry's eyes widened.
"Like on TV?"
"Sometimes."
"Were you famous?"
Agrippa shook his head.
"Some people knew me."
"What was your name?"
Agrippa hesitated.
"The Anvil."
Larry smiled.
"That's a cool name."
Agrippa didn't think it was cool anymore.
It was a name that belonged to another man.
A younger man.
A man who believed pain was proof of strength.
A man who could walk into a cage without thinking about the consequences.
Agrippa had spent years burying that man.
Now, in less than ten seconds, he had pulled him back into daylight.
That night, after Larry went to bed, Agrippa sat alone in the kitchen.
He wrapped ice around his hand.
The refrigerator hummed.
The apartment was silent.
On the table was a drawing Larry had made at school.
It showed a house.
The house was crooked.
The sun was enormous.
Three stick figures stood in front.
Larry.
His mother.
Agrippa.
Above them, in uneven letters, Larry had written:
HOME.
Agrippa stared at it.
He had spent years trying to build exactly that.
A home.
A safe place.
A life without violence.
And now he wondered whether the violence inside him would always find a way back.
His phone rang.
It was an unknown number.
Agrippa answered.
"Hello?"
A man's voice said:
"Is this Agrippa Fisher?"
"Who is this?"
"This is Daniel Mercer. I'm a reporter with the local paper."
Agrippa's stomach sank.
"How did you get my number?"
"We have video."
Agrippa closed his eyes.
Of course they did.
Someone had filmed the fight.
Daniel continued.
"Mr. Fisher, people are already calling you The Anvil."
Agrippa stared at the drawing on the table.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Turn this into something it isn't."
The reporter paused.
"What is it?"
Agrippa looked toward Larry's bedroom.
"A father protecting his son."
He hung up.
But he knew.
The story was only beginning.
What People Remember
By Wednesday morning, the video had spread.
By Thursday, everyone seemed to know Agrippa Fisher.
People who had never heard of Centennial Park were suddenly discussing the fight.
The footage had been recorded from several different angles.
One video showed Trent shoving Agrippa.
Another captured the first punch.
A third showed the two fleeing men.
The clips were short.
They lacked context.
They encouraged speculation.
Some people called Agrippa a hero.
Others called him violent.
Some called him a retired fighter who had finally found an excuse to return to the street.
The internet did what it always did.
It turned ten seconds into a story.
Agrippa ignored it.
He went to work.
At the lumberyard, men slapped him on the shoulder.
"Anvil!"
"Man, you still got it."
"That punch was beautiful."
Agrippa didn't respond.
He loaded timber.
He measured boards.
He operated the saw.
He worked.
But something had changed.
People were watching him.
At lunch, his supervisor sat beside him.
"You all right?"
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
Agrippa nodded.
His supervisor hesitated.
"Those boys were asking for it."
Agrippa looked at him.
"That's not how I want my son to think."
His supervisor frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want him believing violence is the answer."
"Sometimes it is."
Agrippa shook his head.
"Sometimes it's the last answer."
That afternoon, his phone rang again.
This time it was Larry's mother.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"I saw the video."
"I know."
"Was Larry there?"
"Yes."
She was silent.
Then:
"Does he understand what happened?"
"Some of it."
"You need to talk to him."