Time slows. The opponent — a younger, faster shadow from Isaan — throws an elbow. Chaim doesn’t block. He steps in . The elbow glances off his brow. Blood sheets down.

of the crowd gasping, then exploding.

Chaim grins. His teeth are red. He raises one glove — pointing at the lights, at the ghost of his father in the cheap seats, at the entire hungry nation watching on grainy television.

of a gambler screaming odds into a flip phone. “ Hok! Hok! ” (Six! Six!)

. His face is a map of sweat and dried blood. He spits a pink mist into a bucket. The corner man slaps his thighs — smack, smack — hard enough to leave red handprints.