survived things in the desert that would break

you in half. Leave the man alone.”

“I don't want to fight him,” Thorne said, his

voice earnest and desperate. “I want to learn

from him. I need to know what he knows.”

Gregory stared at Thorne for a long moment,

searching the young man’s face for any sign of

deception. He saw only a broken pride and a

genuine desire for redemption. With a heavy

sigh, Gregory tore a corner off a piece of scrap

paper, scribbled down an address, and slid it

across the desk.

“He lives out by the county line. Don't

disrespect him again, Thorne. Or I won't stop him

next time.”

Chapter 5: The Old Marine's

Garden

The drive to the county line was long and

gray, the rain drumming a steady rhythm against

the windshield of Thorne’s car. He finally pulled

up to a small, unassuming property. The house

was a modest single-story structure with faded

white paint and a wraparound porch. In the

back, past a rusted pickup truck, lay a sprawling,

meticulously maintained vegetable garden.

Thorne found Arty in the garden, despite the

light rain. The old man was wearing a yellow

raincoat and thick rubber boots, methodically

turning the soil with a rusted pitchfork. He didn't

look up as Thorne approached the wooden fence.

“Mr. Kelly,” Thorne called out, his voice

barely carrying over the sound of the rain.

Arty paused, leaning heavily on the handle

of the pitchfork. He looked at Thorne, his

expression unreadable. “You lost?”

“No, sir. I asked Greg where to find you.”

Arty resumed turning the soil. “I told you,

kid. I'm too old to fight. Go back to your gym and

your shiny trophies.”

“I didn't come to fight,” Thorne said, gripping

the wet wood of the fence. “I came to apologize.

For my disrespect. For running my mouth about

things I don't understand.”

Arty stopped again. He studied Thorne for a

long moment, the rain dripping from the brim of

his hat. “Apologies are cheap. They're just words.

Words don't fix the damage you do when you

tear people down to build yourself up.”

“Then teach me how to be better,” Thorne

pleaded. “Teach me what you know.”

“I don't teach martial arts,” Arty grunted,

turning his back to Thorne. “I grow tomatoes and

I fix broken fences. Go home, kid.”

Thorne didn't go home. He stood by the fence

in the rain for an hour. When Arty moved to the

porch to take off his muddy boots, Thorne moved

to the porch steps. He sat down, shivering slightly

in his damp sweatshirt, and waited. He waited

through the afternoon. He waited as the sun

began to set, casting long, gray shadows across

the yard.

Finally, the front door opened. Arty stepped

out, holding a second pair of heavy work gloves

and a rusted iron shovel. He tossed them onto the

dirt at Thorne’s feet.

“The drainage ditch behind the greenhouse

needs clearing,” Arty said gruffly. “It’s two feet

deep, three feet wide, and filled with rocks and

clay. Don't stop until it's done.”