Free To the Bone by Neil McMahon

his chest and gut were tight. After almost getting hamstrung by a psychopath with a grape-picker’s knife, he had never let himself get badly out of shape again.
    He walked to the old garage that he had outfitted as a gym. It was one of the original structures on the place, good-sized—intended for working on vehicles, not just housing them—with bare frame walls and roof. Monks had rebuilt the floor with pressure-treated two-by-ten joists and plywood. He had installed a Vitamax weight machine in one corner and hung a heavy bag in the room’s center Most days, he spent fifteen minutes doing sit-ups and weights, then another twenty of hammering the bag. It was not a thorough workout, but it kept his body toned, and on a day like this it offered release.
    The room was hot, with the faint good smell of the redwood it had been built from, back when that was cheap lumber. He went through a quick routine on the machine—fifty sit-ups with a ten-pound weight behind his head, sets of bench and military presses, butterflies, and pull-downs—then put on his bag gloves. Usually he started by standing still, throwing controlled left jabs at the bag to get his distance, then stepping in with right crosses and follow-up left hooks. Soon, his feet would start moving by themselves, and he would circle the bag, gathering speed and force.
    But today, for no reason he was aware of, he unhooked the bag and set it aside. He started doing footwork, very slowly at first—the gliding step of the left moving forward with the jab, then the right catching up and planting itself to give power to the cross. The left foot stayed put but pivoted with the hook, the third punch in the classic combination, hip reversing at the moment of impact to give it extra snap. The importance of footwork could not be overestimated; placement of inches could make the difference. Rocky Marciano had been one of the all-time great punchers, but his trainers had to tie his ankles together with string to keep him from extending his left foot too far and losing power from his right.
    Monks kept his hands at his sides, his gaze on the center of his invisible opponent’s chest, concentrating just on his feet. A step forward with the left, quick catch-up with the right, left pivoting on the ball, hip swinging with it, then snapping back. Again, a little faster. Then again, and again. He shuffled his way around the room’s perimeter as if it were a ring and the walls were the ropes.
    But you could not always advance. The other man in the ring was going to punch you back. Retreating, with minimum damage to yourself, was the other half of footwork. Monks reversed his direction—not with the same steps, but more with side-to-side dancing, as if he were jitterbugging or skating backward. Now he raised his hands defensively, fists protecting his face but just low enough to see over, elbows close in to his ribs.
    Monks started circling, combining advance and retreat with unplanted pivots, either foot leaving the floor to gain him a quarter or half turn. He concentrated on moving to his left, trying to herd his spectral partner into a right cross. But the partner had other ideas, and Monks swung the other way, spinning to his right, leaping clear of the swift straight blows coming at him. He changed directions again and again, ducking, weaving, his feet dancing across the floor in a dizzying intricate pattern that could only ever make sense during the few moments it existed.
    He slowed, like a toy with its battery running down. He stopped, and let his hands fall to his waist. He was panting and streaming with sweat. Outside, a Steller’s jay screeched, nervous from the commotion, or maybe mocking him.
    He pulled off the gloves and set them on the sill of the garage’s single crude window so they would dry. He pulled off his sweatshirt, too, then kicked off shoes and socks and stepped out of his sweatpants and jock. Barefoot, naked, he walked