The suspension letter came in a plain white envelope, hand-delivered by Mr. Delgado himself. Alex was in the kitchen, pouring cereal he didn't want, when the principal knocked. Mom took the envelope with shaking hands, read it once, then again, her lips moving silent. She didn't cry. Just folded it neat, slipped it back inside, and set it on the counter like it was a bill she couldn't pay.
"Two weeks," she said. Voice flat. "Starting today."
Alex shrugged. "Fine."
Mr. Delgado cleared his throat. "Alex, this is serious. Underground fighting, police involvement, your record—"
"Don't care." Alex poured milk, watched it swirl brown.
"They want me gone, I'm gone."
Mom's eyes flashed. "You care. You just don't know it yet."
Mr. Delgado left with a sigh and a promise to check in. The door shut. Silence rushed in.
Mom went to work early,triple shift, someone called in sick. She kissed his forehead, smelled like coffee and fryer grease
"Garage is yours. Don't do anything stupid."
Alex waited until her pickup rattled down the street, then grabbed Dad's old robe from the hook. The patches were fraying now, gold thread loose, but it still fit over his shoulders like armor. He laced up his sneakers holes in both soles, duct tape holding the left one together and hit the door.
First day of freedom, he ran.
Not the neat laps Coach laid out four miles around the park, measured to the tenth. No. He ran wild, like the city owed him miles. Down Central, past the pawn shops and the laundromat with the broken dryer that always smelled like burnt socks. Past the rail yard where the night crews were clocking out, faces gray with diesel dust. He cut through the arroyo when the road ended, sneakers sinking in sand, jumping cactus skeletons and rusted beer cans. The sun was a hammer, but he kept going until his lungs burned and his legs turned to jelly.
He stopped at the water tower, the one Dad used to climb when he was a kid. Graffiti layered thick *NORTENO 13*, *SOUTH SIDE LOCOS*, someone's phone number promising good times. Alex leaned against the ladder, hands on knees, spit thick in his mouth. He threw jabs at the air*pop, pop, pop* imagining the Samoan's gut, the wiry guy's teardrop tattoo. His busted knuckles split open again, blood dotting the dirt.
He ran home as the sun dropped, sky bleeding orange over the Sandias. The house was dark. Mom wouldn't be back till after midnight. He showered, wrapped his hands in fresh tape from the first-aid kit, and hit the garage.
The heavy bag swung lazy from its chain. He'd patched it with more duct tape after the bunker new tears from bare-knuckle nights. He threw combos slow, then fast, then slow again. Jab-cross-hook-roll-hook. The bag groaned. Sweat flew. His shadow danced on the wall, huge and distorted under the single bulb.
He didn't sleep much. Kept waking to the sound of sirens in his head.
Day two, he added push-ups. Fifty in the driveway at dawn, gravel biting his palms. Then sit-ups on the living-room floor, TV muttering infomercials. He shadowboxed in the hallway mirror, robe flapping, until the glass fogged with his breath.
Layla texted at noon:
**You ok? I heard about suspension. roof's boring without you**
He stared at the screen, thumbs hovering. Typed:
**training. talk later**
Didn't send a heart. I didn't know how.
On day three, he ran.Took the dirt trail behind the trailer park, past the junked cars and the stray dogs that barked but never chased. The climb was brutal loose rock, switchbacks, air thinning with every step. He hit the ridge at sunrise, city spread out below like a circuit board. He threw punches at the wind, feet sliding in dust. A hawk circled overhead, screaming.
On the way down he found a flat rock, carried it back in his hoodie pocket. Heavy, warm from the sun. He used it for curls in the garage twenty reps each arm, then shadowboxed some more. The rock left bruises on his forearms, purple and perfect.
Day four, the loneliness crept in.
No Coach barking orders. No Rico trash-talking. No Luz wrapping her hands pink and daring him to hit harder. Just the bag, the road, and the quiet. He ran past Sacred Heart twice, saw the gym door locked, chain through the handles. Coach's truck wasn't in the lot. He kept running.
He started talking to the bag. Low, under his breath.
"You think you're tough?" *thud* "Victor spat on my dad." *thud-thud* "Rico's got a big mouth." *crack*
The chain rattled like it agreed.
Day five, Mom came home early shift cut short, someone else needed the hours. She found him in the garage, shirtless, wrapping his hands for the third time that day. His knuckles were raw hamburger, tape stained pink.
"Alex." Her voice cracked. "Your hands."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." She stepped closer, touched his cheek. "You're disappearing."
He pulled away. "I'm training."
"You're punishing yourself." She grabbed his wrist gentle, but firm. "Look at me."
He did. Her eyes were bloodshot, apron still tied. She smelled like bacon and bleach.
"I got a second job," she said. "Nights at the truck stop. Cleaning. Pays better. We'll catch up."
Alex's stomach dropped. "You don't have to—"
"I do." She let go. "But you don't. Not like this."
She left a plate outside his door that night, enchiladas, extra cheese. He ate half, left the rest for the stray cat that kept sneaking in through the window.
Day six, he ran to the river. The Rio Grande was low, muddy, cottonwoods bare. He followed the bike path south until his legs gave out, collapsed on the bank with his feet in the water. The cold shocked the ache out of his calves. He threw rocks at a rusted can, missed every time.
A jogger went past an old man in a UNM hoodie, breathing steady. He nodded.
"Keep fighting, kid."
Alex wasn't sure if he meant the river or something else.
Day seven, he added sprints. Backyard to the alley and back, ten times, until he puked behind the trash cans. Then push-ups again. Then the rock. His shadow in the garage grew longer, thinner, and meaner.
He started dreaming in punches. Waking with his fists clenched, sheets twisted. Once he punched the wall drywall caved, knuckles bled fresh. He taped over it, kept going.
Day eight, Layla showed up.
He was in the driveway, mid-push-up, when her shadow fell over him. She wore cutoff shorts and the denim jacket, braids swinging. A plastic bag dangled from her hand.
"Thought you ghosted me," she said.
"Suspended, not dead."
She dropped the bag two burritos from Golden Pride, still hot.
"Eat. You look like a scarecrow."
They sat on the porch steps. He unwrapped a burrito, took a bite. Green chile burned his split lip. Good burn.
"You talk to Coach?" she asked.
"Not yet."
"Everyone has been asking about you. Says you're hiding."
"Let them talk."
Layla studied him. "You're scaring me, Alex."
He met her eyes. "I'm scaring myself."
She didn't push. Just handed him the second burrito. They ate in silence, watching a lowrider cruise past, bass thumping.
Day nine, he ran to the gym anyway. Stood across the street, hood up, watching the lights flick on. Coach's truck pulled in. Luz bounced out, pink wraps flashing. Rico carried a duffel. Life went on without him.
He turned away before anyone saw.
Day ten, the rock became a ritual. Curls, presses, throws against the garage wall until his shoulders screamed. He started timing his punches *one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand* imagining the bunker, the circle, the drain. He threw until the bag split at the seam, sand leaking like blood.
Mom found the mess at 2 a.m., came home to the garage light still on. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
"Enough."
He kept punching.
"Alex." Sharper now. "Stop."
He stopped. The bag swayed, dripping.
She stepped over the sand, took the wrap from his hands. Her fingers were gentle on his knuckles swollen, purple, weeping.
"You're coming back to school Monday," she said. "And you're seeing Coach. No arguments."
He nodded. Couldn't speak.
Day eleven, he ran slower. Let the sunrise catch him. Let the dogs bark. Let the city wake up around him. He threw jabs at the air, but softer now. Like apologies.
Day twelve, he cleaned the garage. Swept the sand, patched the bag with duct tape and prayer. Hung Dad's robe on the nail, smoothed the patches. The gold thread caught the light.
Day thirteen, he slept. Really slept. No dreams. Just the fan clicking, the stray cat purring on the windowsill.
Day fourteen, Monday came.
He woke before the alarm, showered, put on clean jeans and the least-bloody hoodie. Mom was in the kitchen, coffee brewing, eyes puffy but clear.
"Ready?" she asked.
He nodded. Grabbed his backpack suspension letter still inside, crumpled now.
They drove in silence. The school loomed, same cracked bricks, same mural. Kids stared as he walked the hall, whispers following like smoke. He didn't look away.
Mr. Delgado met him at the office. "Welcome back, Mr. Alex. Let's not make this a habit."
Alex shook his hand. "Yes, sir."
First period was PE. Coach Brown *the* Coach Brown was subbing, arms crossed, toothpick dancing. He didn't smile, but his eyes softened a fraction.
"Brown. Track. Ten laps. Then we talk."
Alex ran. Not wild this time. Steady. Controlled. The wind felt different now cleaner, sharper. His legs remembered the rhythm.
After laps, Coach pulled him aside.
"Gym. After school. You're back on the bag. But you wrap with me. No shortcuts."
Alex nodded. "Yes, sir."
Coach clapped his shoulder hard enough to sting, gentle enough to mean something.
That night, he ran home. Not away. Toward.
The garage light was on. The bag hung patched but proud. He threw jabs slow, perfect, de
liberate. The chain sang.
Two weeks in the wilderness had carved something new. Not softer. Not harder. Just clearer.
He was still fighting. But now he knew the difference between running and standing ground.