Talia slides into a fighting stance like the kind she’s seen on TV: hands raised, legs apart to brace her weight. The dragon stirs inside her.

Polo arches an eyebrow at Talia and sinks into a seated position on the grass: legs crossed, hands on her knees, eyes closed.

Talia frowns. Silence—Polo doesn’t open her eyes or move except for the breeze ruffling her hair.

“Aren’t you supposed to be training me?” Talia asks after another moment.

“I am,” Polo replies, eyes still closed. “If you’d take a seat.”

Talia mimics Polo, folding herself into a cross-legged position on the grass. Once she’s settled, Polo says, “Good. Now breathe in. Slowly.”

She demonstrates with a drawn-out, steady inhale that Talia copies. She holds the air in her lungs until it starts to burn, until Polo exhales in a long sigh.

“Again.” Polo says. “Keep your breathing steady.”

Talia obeys, closing her eyes for good measure. It’s strange: just sitting here and breathing in such a measured pattern, making her more aware of her body than she ever has been. The stillness itches, like ants crawling across her skin, and she wants to fidget, to move in some way. But she forces herself to stay seated, to match every inhale and exhale from Polo as the minutes drag on.

“Now,” Polo says after what feels like a whole decade, “I want you to stay focused on your breathing and your surroundings. Empty your mind of everything else. Just feel: the wind, the grass, the air. Let yourself exist.”

That sounds … impossible. Empty her mind? It’s always been a storm of sorts—thoughts and fears and frustrations all crashing together, preventing her from focusing, from sleeping some nights. She tries, though, because she doesn’t want to disappoint Polo.

She focuses on the rhythm of her breathing and the feeling of the grass prickling at her skin and the tug of the wind through the loose strands of her short hair. But other thoughts and memories keep creeping in at the edges, flashing through her mind Foster Mother Nine peering at her in disdain, Clara cowering against a fence, the nightmares that keep haunting her, the Neighborhood King with his sneering face—her blood drips down to the pavement and her lungs burn for air …

Everything tangles together into an incoherent, screaming mass—a hurricane without definition. Not good enough, it roars. Alone, forgotten, weak, invisible, alone alone alone—

Talia grits her teeth against it, reaching for elusive calm. It slips between her metaphorical fingers and she opens her eyes in frustration.

“What does this have to do with fighting?” She demands, glaring at Polo.

“I said I would train you,” Polo points out. “Not that I would teach you to fight.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

Polo finally opens her eyes. “There’s more to fighting than throwing a good punch.”

Talia crosses her arms in front of her chest. “We’re just sitting here and breathing.”

“Calm is important when facing an enemy, as is inner balance. Meditation helps with this.”

That sounds stupid. What exactly is emptying her mind supposed to do? Talia wonders if this is another one of Polo’s riddles—some kind of elaborate joke being played at Talia’s expense. An offer to “train” her that would never amount to anything except sitting in parks.

“I don’t want to learn how to meditate,” Talia says, petulant. “I want to learn how to fight.”

Polo frowns at her, a warning, but Talia just rises to her feet and clenches her fists. “Teach me how to fight, isn’t that what’s more important?”

“Fine,” Polo says, voice flat. “Let’s spar, then. If you’re so eager to fight.”

Yes, Talia thinks. Finally. She adopts her stance again, watching Polo plant her feet and wave an almost lazy hand. “Well, come at me.”

Right. Okay.

Talia surges forward, aiming a blow at Polo’s side. Polo dodges—so fast that Talia barely sees her move, just gasps as her fist meets empty air. She doesn’t have time to recover before a hit to the back of her shoulders sends her crashing to the ground. She catches herself on her hands and knees and hears Polo tsk somewhere above her.

“Again.”

Talia curls her fingers, ripping up several clumps of grass and surges upright, this time attempting a kick to Polo’s shins. Again, Polo dodges—a blur of motion. Again, Talia doesn’t anticipate the retaliating strike and finds herself face-first in the dirt. Humiliation burns in her gut as she pushes herself up a third time on shaking arms.

Less than ten seconds later, she’s back in the same position, panting. Polo crouches next to her, obscuring her view of the sky and the treetops. “Fighting is a skill,” Polo says with infuriating calm, “that’s built on top of a foundation. It’s more than just knowing the right way to take down an opponent.”

Her finger taps against Talia’s forehead. “It starts here. With you. You need to learn better control. Over your emotions. Over yourself. If you keep letting your impulsivity, resentment, and anger define you, then teaching you will be impossible. And in a real fight the mistakes you make will be fatal.”

“Haven’t you ever been angry?” she asks. “Didn’t you ever fight because of that?”

Polo sighs and stands, offering a hand to help Talia up. “Let’s go home.”

Talia stays silent on the walk back, feeling the ache radiating from her back and side. Her pride feels the most bruised, even though she’s used to defeat. It’s different, when it happens so quickly. When it’s Polo as the victor. Talia can feel vindicated when she’s bested by some neighborhood bully, knowing he deserves to lose and that means she’ll defeat him eventually. Now, Polo’s words clang around inside of her, and she forces herself to examine them.

She wants to get stronger, doesn’t want to keep feeling so weak and helpless. Polo is the strongest person she’s ever met, there’s no one better she can learn from. So if meditation really would help with that, then she’ll bear it, she decides. Even if it feels stupid.

Talia stares at the tense line of Polo’s back and also wonders about all the things that Polo hasn’t told her.