The entrance of the church is on the far side from our point of view. I know I have it in the bag. I slow to a leisurely jog as I round the final corner, exulting in my success. I turn and look, and he hasn’t even made it around yet. I let out a joyful whoop and trot into the yard of the church. He is standing there.
Knuckles collide with mouth, teeth fly, saliva mixes with blood in a cacophony of noise that would have made Bizet proud. My fingers form a lasting depression in his cheek, dislodging tendons and muscles and forming a new crater in his face. I open my eyes.
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