Project River was thriving. We taught a hybrid curriculum of Krav Maga and Kyokushin — eye gouges, choke escapes, groin strikes. We didn’t teach women to score points.

We taught them how to get out of a room alive.

I was wiping down the heavy bags when my phone buzzed. The caller ID flashed Tom Miller.

I answered out of morbid curiosity.

“Alex.” His voice was flat, competing with the wind behind him. “I’m sorry to call.”

He told me he’d fled our hometown and was working as a crane operator on a high-rise site. He’d moved his mother to a rural care facility, paying her bills but severing all contact.