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demand a rematch even though his forehead was being held together by the surgeon’s stitches.
    I stretched my fingers, trying to ignore their bruises. I liked to wait at least a week between fights so my hands could heal from the blows they’d delivered. But this time I’d broken my own rule.
    When the one-eyed man stepped into the circle, anger boiled in his good eye. Sweat glistened on his broad, hairy chest. It didn’t worry me that my chest was half the size and hairless. Advantage came not from size or age, but from nimble feet and quick reflexes. The anger worried me though. Fighting an angry man was tricky. Angry men tended to ignore rules, their only intent to inflict pain.
    He cracked his knuckles and glared at me. I took a deep breath and scanned the crowd. Bartholomew Raisin was collecting the final wagers. “Owen, Owen,” a few men called. I grinned and nodded at them, trying to push away the doubts about my sore hands. The drummer pounded three times—the signal that the fight would begin.
    “You’re gonna lose,” the one-eyed man called from across the circle. His words were slurred. He wobbled, as if about to fall over. Was he drunk? He staggered forward, pointing. “I’m gonna …” He staggered from side to side. “I’m gonna …”
    My father had fought in his youth, before marrying my mother. He’d always told me, “Never fight a man who’s clouded by drink. He’s as likely as an assassin to pull a knife on you.”
    “I’m not fighting him,” I called. “He’s drunk. I’m not fighting him!”
    “What’s this?” Bartholomew asked as the crowd quieted. He hurried into the circle.
    “He’s drunk,” I repeated. “I’m not fighting a drunk.”
    “Coward,” the one-eyed man said, spittle dribbling on his chin.
    “Look at him. He can barely stand up.” I motioned with disgust.
    Bartholomew grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear. “Do you know how much coin I’ve collected? Do you know what I stand to lose?”
    “I don’t care about your profit.” I pulled my arm from his grip. “I want a fair fight.”
    Bartholomew grabbed my belt buckle and pulled me close. “Who cares about a fair fight?” he hissed between clenched teeth. He looked over his shoulder, smiled, and waved at the restless crowd. Then he turned back to me. “You agreed. You accepted the fight. One punch and you’ll knock him right off his stupid drunk feet.”
    “Quit talking and fight,” the one-eyed man bellowed. Then he lumbered across the circle, pushed Bartholomew aside, and swung at me. I darted out of the way. The man growled. “Running away,are ya? Too scared to fight me?” He swung again, a slow awkward punch that I easily sidestepped. This would be no match. On the third swing, the man tripped over his own feet and landed face-first into the crowd. A roar of laughter filled the air.
    Humiliation bloomed in the man’s reddening face. Twice he’d ended up on the ground, twice he’d been laughed at. This humiliation would fester and feed his anger. I needed to calm the situation. “Sober up and I’ll fight you tomorrow,” I told him, loud enough so everyone could hear. “You’re a worthy opponent when sober.” I was about to reach out my hand to help him up, but changed my mind. It was too much of a risk. The crowd made way as I left the fight circle.
    “Owen!” someone yelled. “Watch out!”
    I swung around. The one-eyed man lunged like a bull, his head ramming into my chest. Something cracked and pain shot up my side. I tumbled backward, the man landing on top of me, pinning me to the ground. I couldn’t breathe as he grabbed my throat. Looking into eyes reddened by drink and fury, I tried to pry the man’s fingers loose, knowing it was only moments before my windpipe would snap. As his fingers tightened, an odd sense of calm came over me. This was how I was going to die.
    “Help him!”
    Voices rose and the crowd rushed into the circle. Onlookers pulled the man off and held