Arlo's head snapped back, blood blossoming on his lip. He tasted iron on his tongue.
He looked up, taken by surprise, but he didn't answer. He stepped back in and traded back what he'd gotten.
The ring dissolved into impact. Fist on ribs. Elbow on shoulder. The meaty sound of forearm meeting forearm in blocks and attacks.
Their breathing roughened, less from exertion than from the effort to keep words out of it. They circled, crossed, and collided. Sand puffed up around their ankles in tired halos.
'Don't stop,' Noah told himself, the thought sounding like a drum in his head. 'Don't let him make you listen.'
And every time Arlo opened his mouth, Noah filled it with a fist.
Arlo's voice frayed, talking even through the blows. "I went to Professor Cecilia. I begged her. I—"
Noah shot a straight at his face. Arlo slipped just enough to save himself from getting his nose broken, but Noah's knuckles split his cheek.
