Chapter 3

The backyard floodlights snapped on, illuminating a rectangular patch of lawn bordered by chain-link fencing. Savannah squinted against the sudden glare, her combat boots sinking into the damp grass. Max didn’t waste time. “Defend,” he commanded, lunging without warning. His open palm shot toward her throat.

Instinct made Savannah duck left—too slow. His fingers grazed her collarbone, the impact jolting her teeth. She stumbled back, tasting copper. “You telegraph,” Max grunted. “Eyes on my shoulders, not my hands.” He demonstrated the lunge again in slow motion. Savannah watched the subtle roll of his deltoid muscle milliseconds before the strike.

“Now you.”

This time she saw the tension coil in his right shoulder. She pivoted sideways as his hand sliced air where her neck had been. Before she could celebrate, his left foot hooked behind her ankle. Savannah hit the ground hard, breath knocked out in a wheeze.

“Better,” Max conceded, not helping her up. “But you left your base leg exposed. Never commit fully to evasion.”

They drilled for an hour—blocks that felt like catching fastballs with bare hands, pressure points that left her forearm numb, footwork drills where Max barked corrections like a metronome. Savannah’s t-shirt clung to her back, soaked through. At one point, Max pinned her face-down against the fence, his knee digging into her spine. “What now?”

Savannah drove her elbow backward blindly. Missed. His chuckle vibrated against her shoulder blades. “Wrong tool.” He released her, holding up a house key between thumb and forefinger. “Edged weapon. Aim for eyes or carotid. Even a scratch buys time.”

When Stoff called them in at 9 PM, Savannah’s hands trembled lifting her water bottle. Max studied her raw knuckles. “They’ll call it PTSD,” he said quietly. “That rage in your eyes? Use it. But control the burn.” He tossed her a tube of arnica gel. “We’ll do this for a week -- maybe two.”

She nodded, the gel cool in her palm. As she walked to her bike, she glanced back. Max stood silhouetted in the doorway, already analyzing her stride. She straightened her spine, pushing through the ache in her ribs. Maggie’s face flashed behind her eyelids—not crying, but furious. Savannah gripped the handlebars until the metal creaked.