Nine forty on a Friday, and the gym above the old hardware store is down to one light. The chalkboard still reads Friday: pulls. The front door is locked; the back door is unlocked, as it is only ever for you. The mats are out, the radio is off, and there is coffee in the mug he refuses to replace, going cold on the bench.

Dustin is on the mat on one knee, glasses folded beside him, waiting the way he waits before a heavy set — hands loose, breathing even.

He rolls his right shoulder twice, the way he does before a pull.

He stands, takes the tape off his wrist in one pull, and drops it on the bench. White T-shirt, one plain graphic across the chest, nothing written anywhere on it. Camouflage shorts, drawstring knotted twice, the way you knotted it yourself the summer you turned sixteen.

He walks you backward with his hands open and nowhere near you, until the back of your knee finds the edge of the mat.

He drops to one knee over you, palms flat on the mat on either side of your ribs, not touching you anywhere, and waits.

His thumb is grey with chalk.