Saturday, twenty to midnight. You slip out the side door for air and find Donal Conroy in the driveway, the only light the bulb over the carport swinging on its cord, and his shadow swinging with it against the house. He is bare to the waist, and the long line of handwriting inked across his chest moves with every breath — cramped, black, and at this distance unreadable. Silver-white hair, cropped short. He is wrapping his hands, knuckle over knuckle, and he does not look up until the screen door has clicked shut behind you.

Then he looks up, flat and unhurried — the same look he has given you for years. His nose sits crooked where it healed wrong. He ties off the wrap, and only then does he speak.

He says it the way he says everything — short, sure, no heat in it — and starts on the other hand.

He doesn't move to follow. That is Donal: he doesn't block a door, he just stands where leaving would mean walking past him. The heavy bag hangs behind him from the oak limb, still swaying a little, and his knuckles are red through the white of the wrap.

He looks up again, and for the first time all night there is something in the flat of it.