They both moved on their toes, like caged animals ready to attack. Adam danced forward. A left jab, a parry, another jab, followed by a right hook. Magda ducked and dodged every punch he threw her way.

His mind raced, trying to guess what his opponent intended to do next. If I throw three jabs, she will duck my hook. She knows it's my signature combination, he thought. I'll include an uppercut after the —

Adam didn't see what happened. Pain pierced the left side of his face, and he found himself on the ground.

"Fuck," he said, pretending this had been enough to knock him out.

"Up! You can still fight."

She was right. I'm not dizzy or anything. Adam spat and got back on his feet.

"How did you—?"

"I know you. You're trying to get into my mind."

"Predict your next move."

"Dumb."

Adam closed the gap on Magda and faked an upswing hook. He assumed the upcoming attack would come from —

Magda's lightning jabs stung his face until an uppercut slammed him in the gut, leaving Adam on his knees.

"You're doing it again," she said.

He gasped for air that failed to reach his lungs. What the hell happened to my life? Did I walk under a ladder or something? Adam struggled to get back up. Superstition was never his first recourse, but how else could he explain the last couple of days?

"You're too fast," Adam said.

"No."

"I'm too slow, then."

"What does it say up there?"

He didn't need to look at the banner hanging above her office door. While Magdala might have been a boxer since she came out of her mother's womb, her lifetime hero was no boxer. She loved Bruce Lee.

"I'm in no mood for cheap motivational quotes."

Magda got on her knees to meet Adam's eyes.

"Read it."

He sighed.

"Be like water."

She set him back on his feet.

"You don't need no mints."

"What do I need?"

"To recognize the guy in the mirror."

The gaze of everyone in the gym hardened upon him. Among the people enjoying the show were two kids who had helped Papa Smurf unload the food supplies earlier in the day. Fine, Magda. I'll adapt. Without giving it a second thought, he tried to counter her jabs. If my fists can't get to you, let's see what my tongue can do.

"'Know thyself.' Cliché much?" Magda's gloves grazed Adam's chin as he staggered backward. An inch closer, and he would have ended on the canvas again. Shaken up, he stuck to his plan: "Before speaking like a fortune cookie, practice what you preach."

She slowed down.

"I'm not the one who's lost."

"No. You are the teacher whose students are stealing food."

His next hook landed on her temple, flinging her into the ropes.

Adam meant to deliver a right cross after that. He wasn't so lucky. This time he saw her fist coming in fast but couldn't do anything about it. A flash of white pain sent him back. Falling, he heard the helicopters flying above, casting their lights on the crowd tearing itself apart. And then he smelled the miasma oozing from a long millipede coiling like a spiral staircase that led straight to hell.

"Trust is a two-way street," said Magda. "And they trust me."

Adam shook his head. It took him a second to realize he was on the floor. Holding on to whatever he'd seen just now proved to be as useful as trying to stop a river from flowing. Soon, all his focus was on getting back up.

"You are letting them work for a scum."

"When the time comes, they'll do what's right."

"Sure?

"No."

"Then lecture them too. Where's their sermon? Why not get them in the ring and ridicule them in front of everyone?"

"Am I unfair?"

"Yes!"

"There. Anger," Magda removed her gloves. "You've found it. You can overcome it. This fight is over."

"Like hell it is!"

"You are right. The fight is not over."

"What does that even mean?" The adrenaline rush of the match and the hot fury he'd been battling to control somehow cleared his mind. Despite the beating, his body ached less, and breathing came easier to him. "Forget it. Just pray you never have to put your trust in them to the test."

"That's where you and I are different. I don't pray for fewer fights. I ask for the strength to hit back hard."

His desire to hurt her was overcoming him. Yet he stood silent and unmoving. Adam wanted to wield his sharp sarcasm like a sword. No words came to him, however. After a long silence, everyone around them resumed their workouts.

It was over.

He'd lost.

"There." Magda pointed to a thermos on top of a small wooden bench. "Stay hydrated."

"Not even my mother treated me like this."

"If she had, you wouldn't need no tough love as a grown-ass man."

Once Adam left the ring, he felt better after each sip of green tea.

"My ass is not big."

"Yeah! And I'm not old."

"Is that vanity?"

"My favorite sin." Magda grinned. "Come on, let's eat."

Adam smiled back.

Rice, stewed black beans, fried plantain slices, and a fried egg. It wasn't his kind of comfort food. Not by a long shot. But it tastes like glory. Heck! I don't mind it's room temperature. Warm food and beverages disgusted Adam. He liked everything either freezing or boiling—nothing in between. (Red Bulls had to be really cold, and if coffee didn't burn his tongue, it was no good).

"Best. Lunch. Ever," he said.

"Consider it your Christmas present."

"No decorations, by the way?"

"Are you blind?"

"Not funny."

"There."

She turned left towards a dusty garland hanging from the wall.

"Wow! Festive."

"You should come and visit during Carnaval."

Right. Magda's office was the same all year round: a narrow room, cluttered with ancient file cabinets. In there, sitting on an uncomfortable stool and using her desk as a table, Adam ate while his old coach typed, using only her index fingers on a yellowish keyboard. This computer belongs in a museum.

By the time Adam finished his fried plantain slices (the closest thing he'd have to a dessert all day), he'd told her everything about the fake plumber, the stolen PC, his encounter with Papa Smurf, and the homeless man who almost blinded him.

"I'm planning to get something special for my neighbor. You know, to thank her."

"When you're too busy making plans, God laughs at you and..."

"Life passes you by." Adam finished the sentence for her. "Fortune cookie. Seriously."

"I mean it. You're stubborn." She slammed the side of her computer to get it to work. "Can't see which tree is ablaze because you are too worried about the forest catching fire."

"Please drop the Mr. Miyagi act."

"Forget the PC. Go straight to the root of the problem."

The root of the problem? Adam could almost hear his own brain whirring. The common thread in all this mess is Rafael. His old mentor was the only person from the Mission Phidias still cashing in government checks and the one survivor of the Red Christmas he'd be able to find with little hassle.

If Adam remembered well, Rafael taught at the School of Medicine at the Central University of Venezuela. I can talk to him this afternoon, assuming I leave now. Was this risky? Maybe. But there's nothing I can do except finding out if he emailed me the audio file and why.

"Magda, you're right."

"As rain."

"Rafael is the root."

"What?"

"No one but him had access to the file or Evi's old email account."

"Where are you going?"

"To cut down the burning tree."