Elsewhere…The nearly four thousand square feet that made ‘Bronx Boxin’s ground floor appeared as it usually did that day, empty. You’d wonder why, as it was one of the expensive-looking gyms in the tristate. When you walked inside, you’d be treated to the sight of patted floors, a few benches by the coat racks, and a door to the main office. In the center was a regulation-size ring that still looked relatively spotless. Beyond that were stocked racks of bag gloves, sparring equipment, ropes, mats, wraps, bundles, everything of the highest quality.  Around the end of the gym was a space dubbed the forest. An assortment of punching bags is arranged in rows. They ranged from a bouncy double-end bag to the 300lb monstrosity, Big Bess, that hung at the farthest end of the forest. The gym was active that day, and all four of its regulars had shown up. 

In front of the corner of the ring was Peter, jumping rope, up to a puddle of his own sweat. The baggy long-sleeve T-shirt he wore to hide his body was stuck to his skin, only emphasizing the curves he hoped to hide. He’d entered the mostly empty gym, hoping to lose weight in a place no one could see him back in the 10th grade. He was now a high school senior, having blown up again within the first three months of school due to stress, which was routine. Not a fighter at heart, he’d at least gotten very proficient at jumping rope. It helped block out the world around him. It hurt, it was tiring, and he hated it, but he was centered, whole.

“Hey, Pete!” Kyle's voice rang out in his ears. Startled, Peter Park tripped on the rope and landed with a splash on the floor.

“Ugh…why…” He muttered to himself, staring up. Above him, he could see Kyle's concerned face. 

“Oh crap, my fault,t Pete, I didn’t mean to-”

“-no it's fine. It's my fault for getting lost there,” Peter wheezed. “Ugh, Marcus, how long was I going?” Peter asked, looking up at the ring where Marcus was shadow boxing. 

A lean, but muscular young man wearing a basketball Jersey.  If he’d been a foot taller, he’d look like an NBA rookie. 

The sweat off his bald brow glared off the lights above after another heavy swing of his arm. He paused to look down at Peter’s worn-out form. 

“I wasn’t counting Pete. Sorry,” he said before going back to his own training. Unlike the other two high schoolers, Marcus was nearly twenty and acted like it when speaking to them.

“Marcus, you gotta keep your elbows in more when you throw that left,” Kyle called out, crossing her arms. He stopped again, giving her his usual face. A dull, hollow smile. 

“Mkay,” he simply said before continuing to swing wide with a blank look on his face.

“Whyyyy do I get the feeling he’s not listening?” Peter said.

“Does he ever?” she said. Peter went to sit up, but his body jolted, planting his back once again to the vibrating floor. The earth-shaking blast from the other side of the gym was followed by a terrifying battle cry. 

“AH!” came the raspy howl of a marauder from his usual spot. It was in front of Big Bess, the heaviest, densest bag in the gym. The heavy blow sent the bag flying off the ground with a thud. Punching BETH was designed like a test of strength. It's not meant to be moved or used permanently. Old Dave didn't care. Everyone in the gym looked on in awe. Old Dave stared back.

The man dressed as if he were going birdwatching. He wore cream-colored slacks and a comfortable cardigan. Underneath, he was a small ball of muscle. With a wrinkled old scowl grunted at them all before walking over to grab his water bottle.  

“Oh yeah!” Kyle said excitedly, rushing back towards the entrance of the gym. Peter’s eyes followed her only then to realize there a large bald man who’d been staring down at him. 

“Oh, Jesus…..were you there the whole time?” 

“Uh…yes,” he replied softly. A silence followed, with both men hoping Kyle would return quickly. She was, in fact, busy. By the front door of the gym hung ten wooden boards on the wall, each bearing one of the many rules of Bronx Boxing. It was Kyle’s idea. The first ten involved paying dues and not fighting inside or around the gym. But Kyle had developed the eleventh rule that day and was excited to display it. She reached into her backpack and produced another wooden board with duct tape on the back. She pressed it to the wall at the bottom. 

“Gotta talk to the boss first, but this is perfect,” she muttered to herself, proud of her handiwork. The board read Rule #11 at Bronx Boxin. Old Dave don’t talk.