The old gym was a firetrap. The floor, the stage, and the stands were made of very old, dry wood, which creaked when one walked or sat. A WPA plaque was bolted to the support column in front of the main office, with a date of 1934. The Work Project Administration was a program launched during the Great Depression, designed to create work for the millions of men who were jobless. The old gym had to be just as old, or older. Jason sat on a folding chair on the basketball court of the old gym, facing the stage. They were having problems with the heater, so the gym was cold, which caused Jason to zip up his jacket and put his hands in his pockets.

He’d managed to get in a boxing workout after school, to get ready for his upcoming boxing match in the video game. Jason felt that he trained as hard for a fight in the Midas Game as he would have trained for a fight in the real world. A look down at his watch confirmed that his hard work paid off.

The health column in real life had gone from yellow to light green, while the game health column had turned dark green, and grown taller. He hoped that the improvement in the health column would pay off during his boxing match. More than any other sport, boxing made relentless demands on a fighter’s body. Often in boxing the winner was not the more skilled fighter, but the one with the physical stamina to keep going after his opponent ran out of gas. The wealth columns in both the game and real life were pretty much unchanged, although Jason had managed to hack a bit off of his college loan debt. With his next paycheck he planned to make a big payment against his student loan.

A man sitting behind Jason leaned forward. “Excuse me, what time is it?”

“Sorry. This is one of those fitness watches. Does everything except tell the time.” Jason shrugged. “I think they’re about ready to start. It’s gotta be 8 by now.”

Sure enough, the lights went out and the spotlight focused on the stage, where one student dressed as the grim reaper held a conversation with Alicia Fletcher in front of the curtains. Both of them were former students of his.

Jason was in the audience for the drama club’s annual Christmas play, which served as a fundraiser for the club, led by Doreen Fletcher, whose husband Greg taught math and science at the school. Greg was a bishop at the local Mormon church, and he and his wife Doreen had eight or nine kids, all of them bright and model students. This year’s play had been written by Allison Fletcher, the one who visited the school with copies of the book she’d written. If every student were like the Fletcher kids, then teaching would be the greatest job in the world; instead, the Fletchers served as the rare exception, a tantalizing glimpse of what education could be.

Jason enjoyed the play, laughing out loud at several moments. It was always rewarding to see students on stage, some of them for the first time. He never failed to be surprised at shy students coming out of their shells and performing. There was one scene where one of the special education students, wearing a leather jacket with his hair slicked back, played a drum kit at the side of the stage, drumming along to “Jingle Bell Rock.” The kid was impressive, and his drumming was rock solid.

After struggling with the animals in his seventh period class, moments like these renewed his soul. Tomorrow he would make a point in class of publicly acknowledging every student he’d seen in the play with what he called a “Moment of Recognition,” and give each awardee a sucker. Maybe it was cheesy, but Jason had to work to stay positive, otherwise he’d become one of those embittered teachers who hated everybody: students, parents, and administrators.

After the play, Jason walked to his car in the dark. It was hardly any colder outside than it was in the freezing old gym. He was in the home stretch now, with Christmas vacation soon approaching, when he would have two whole weeks without students or helicopter parents. If he was lucky, they’d get a snow day or two. But now he was conflicted, for as much as he looked forward to Christmas break, it meant his grandfather was about to leave to go back to the Philippines. What would Jason do then?

* * *

“Care to tell me what happened the other night?” The detective’s face was scarred by acne, and his fedora rested at the back of his head, tilted upward, as though the wind was about to blow it off. He didn’t bother to try to conceal the badge or the gun on his belt, and held a notebook in one hand and a fountain pen in the other.

“The night the blonde guy died?” Jason asked, and he smelled a rat. Homeless men died all the time, sometimes violently, but the police never did anything more than the most cursory investigation, typically chalking it up to “death by misadventure.” It seemed that somebody higher up was trying to squeeze Jason.

“Why did you immediately think of that?” the cop asked suspiciously.

“I figured that’s why you were here, not to investigate how the dinner rolls got burned.”

“Why don’t you walk me through what happened that night.” The cop’s pen was poised to write.

“The blonde guy comes in—we don’t know him, hadn’t seen him before—starts interrupting the pastor, shouting obscenities. He then cut in line, cussed out the men, at which point I kicked him out.”

“Did you hit him?” The detective delivered the line like a gotcha.

“Several times,” Jason replied calmly. “He grabbed my lapel and cocked his fist to hit me. He came back later, and his eyes were wild and glassy, whether it was booze, drugs, insanity, I don’t know. I didn’t see the straight razor in his hand until he cut me, nearly slashed my throat.”

The cop bored into Jason’s eyes. “So you killed him.”

Jason realized that the detective knew he wasn’t going to get a confession from Jason, but his goal was to rattle Jason so he’d say too much or slip up and say the wrong thing.

"I slugged him and kicked him through the doors.”

“Then you chased him, when he was no longer a threat. Is that because you wanted to even the score? Wanted to teach him a lesson?” The detective’s steely eyes focused on Jason.

Jason recognized the last accusations as more of the same, trying to put Jason on the defensive so he’d overcompensate to try to prove his innocence. “He was still a threat. He fired two shots at me in the stairway, and we tussled. I threw him out onto the sidewalk, and he ran out into traffic.”

“You have any idea what happened to that gun?” The detective scribbled into his notebook.

“You know these mean streets,” Jason countered, “a gun doesn’t bounce twice on the sidewalk.”

“We have witnesses who say you were carrying the deceased just before he died.” The detective had waited to drop this last bombshell.

“Are those witnesses alcoholics, many of whom have mental health issues?” Jason was letting the detective know that he wasn’t intimidated. Both he and the detective knew that the testimony of a homeless man could easily be undermined in court. “You know, detective, it was a very stressful night, and my memory is unclear. If you’d like, I can have my lawyer help me draw up a statement.”

The detective looked at him, realizing they were at an impasse. “Nah, that’ll be all. Thanks for your help.” He closed up his notebook and tucked it into his breast pocket before nodding to the pastor and pushing his way through the front doors.

Jason calculated the detective might be bluffing about having witnesses, just as Jason was bluffing about having a lawyer. After retrieving the duffel bag from his room, Jason waved good-bye to the pastor and the two sisters, who smiled at him as they waved. He took the subway back to the shelter and stowed his duffle in his room. He needed a new lair, someplace safe to stash his weapons.

After eating two cans of tuna and two boiled eggs in his room, Jason went down the stairs to the gym, where he wrapped up his hands and Franklin helped him into his gloves, then laced them up for him. “Thanks. Hey, Franklin, can I get you to set the egg timer there for three minutes?”

Jason worked the heavy bag for three minutes, starting with jabs and straights, then progressing to hooks when he moved in close to the bag. He rested for what he felt was a minute, then repeated the process, completing another nine rounds on the heavy bag. Next, he jumped rope for fifteen minutes. Jumping rope not only helped a boxer’s cardio, but also developed the light, bouncing footwork a boxer needed to move in to attack and back out of danger. Jason continued his workout, returning to the heavy bag, to the speed bag, and did sit-ups on an incline board.

At the conclusion of his workout, he handed Franklin the stick. “I need you to hit me repeatedly with the stick, tapping it up my shins, then my thighs, then my stomach and ribs, chest and back. Then work your way back down.”

Franklin held the stick like it was a strange wind instrument, studying it while he scratched the stubble on his chin.

“It’s okay,” he assured the man. “Hit me.”

Franklin knelt down and gently tapped Jason’s shin.

“Harder!” Jason urged him. “It’s supposed to hurt.”

Gradually, Franklin got into it, and tapped the stick rapidly up and down Jason’s body. Jason gritted his teeth and thought, “What kind of a crazy video game is this, where I’m willingly torturing myself all day?” He realized that the Midas Game had a powerful hold on him, in part because it was more meaningful than any shoot-‘em-up game could be.

“Okay, Franklin, thanks.” Jason took the stick from him and put it up.

“I don’t know why you’re th-th-thanking me.” Franklin shook his head in disbelief.

In part because they had nothing to do, a group of men had gathered to watch him work out. Jason headed back to the rectory, soaked in sweat. There was no way in hell he could let these men down, who were rooting for him as the return of “The Fighting Father” Milligan. He wasn’t a father, but it remained to be seen if he was really a boxer or not.

* * *

Jason was awakened from his nap by a persistent knocking at his door. “Yes?” he called out.

“The Stefanellis are here ta serve dinner,” Sister Mildred shouted so she could be heard through the closed door.

“I’ll be right down.” Dammit! He was so wrapped up in his workout and the detective’s accusations that he’d forgotten all about dinner. He quickly threw on his clergy suit, which was all black except for a white strip at the front collar. He jogged down the steps and raced down to the kitchen in the basement, where the gas heaters were fired up and the men waited at the tables, eager to eat. He could smell the tomato sauce before he even entered the basement, and the Stefanellis stood smiling in front of their cart. Sister Mildred stood in front of the tables, beside the Stefanellis, but Maureen was nowhere in sight, and he found himself feeling disappointed that she wasn’t there. When he reached the head of the tables, Sister Mildred looked at him expectantly, and he remembered he was supposed to say something spiritual.

Jason cleared his throat, and every eye was focused on him. “The Apostle Paul said, ‘I have fought the good fight.’ Father Milligan fought the good fight, right up to his last breath. All of us should follow the father’s example, and fight the good fight, for what’s right, for what’s truly good in life.”

“Anyone want to say grace?” Jason asked, hoping someone would throw him a lifeline, but there were no takers. “Lord, we thank you for the food, and ask that you bless the Stefanellis for their generosity, every man here, Sister Mildred, and Maureen.”

“Amen!” one of the men shouted at the mention of Maureen.

The men looked up, surprised that today’s sermon and grace had been as short as the last one, but quickly scrambled to get into line. Jason noticed one man remained sitting at the tables, which was odd. No man at the shelter or the rescue mission ever turned down food.

“Murderers!” the man yelled and shot up from his seat. “You killed him! Damn you!”

Jason knew that many of the men had undiagnosed mental health problems, but given the frightful conditions in mental hospitals, no man wanted to go there. Most men who were diagnosed didn’t have the money for meds, so they self-medicated with booze, which is why Jason worked with the Department of Health to get them physicals and meds.

Jason slowly approached the man, displaying his hands to keep from alarming him, but the man bolted, and took off running up the stairs. Jason’s eyes followed the man as he ran upstairs, and he wondered what was troubling the guy. Jason made his way down the line of men, shaking hands and greeting the men by name.

“Hey, Father, where’d ya get that shiner?” One of the men asked, prompting the guy standing in line next to him to throw an elbow into his ribs.

All the men knew that Jason had dashed off to get Maureen, wading into the rough Irish tenements ruled by the Rowdy Murphys. That Jason had made it out at all, let alone with just a black eye, was nothing short of miraculous, and their admiration for the new priest grew.

“Honestly, I didn’t even know I had it until I woke up this morning.” Jason smiled and patted the man on the shoulder.

Sister Mildred was hustling to hand out the plates and silverware.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stefanelli! Bonjorno!” Jason smiled and edged to one side of the cart to see what they were serving. “Wow, home-made ravioli! You shouldn’t have; that takes so much time.”

“No problem, Father Jason, we happy to help.” Mrs. Stefanelli beamed, and ladled tomato sauce over a plate full of ravioli. Jason moved to one of the gas burners, standing next to it to warm up. When the last man sat down with his plate, no one touched his food, but they all looked at the Stefanellis’ cart, where Angelo hefted up a cardboard box and removed a bottle of wine. The men then turned to Jason, looking for permission.

“I don’t want anybody here to hurt the Stefanellis’ feelings by refusing their generosity,” Jason said loudly enough to be heard by everyone.

The men cheered, and Sister Mildred and Mrs. Stefanelli began handing out wine. Jason joined them to help out. He was just setting down a paper cup full of wine, when he looked up at the doorway.

The agitated man who ran out of the basement was back, holding a knife in his hand.