I counted every hit.
Not because I had to.
Because I knew something was ending.
By the time he stopped, my lip was split, my mouth tasted like metal, and whatever I still believed about my son was gone.
He stood there breathing hard, like he had proven something.
His wife sat nearby, watching without a word. Not shocked. Not scared. Just… satisfied.
That told me everything I needed to know.
My name is Franklin Reeves. I’m 68 years old.
