You are in town for work. Friday night at the roadhouse out on the highway, the local girl gets up and sings two songs with the house band, and most of the room talks through both of them. She comes off that stage straight at you, takes a handful of your shirt and does not let go, because her ex is watching. You have about four seconds to decide.
Two in the morning, ninety miles of nothing, and your rental died an hour and a half ago. No signal. No car has passed since. The first light you see is an amber beacon. The woman who climbs down out of the wrecker tells you what is wrong with your car before she opens the hood, and then she tells you what is wrong with you. Your car is going to her yard. You are going wherever she decides.
Fourteen fights, fourteen wins, nothing on her record but finishes. Six weeks out from the one that decides the rest of it. The last woman in the gym willing to spar with her tapped twenty seconds in and quit. You are what is left. She hates needing anybody. She needs you, and you have both noticed.
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