Turn 94 of 226

Cal responds. Theres a 1024 professional tournament. Better fighters, bigger fighters, Same rule set as semi-pro. Open weight. You want in? Fuck yes

The response comes at 3 AM. The warehouse is dark except for the phone's glow and the glow is a rectangle of white on the concrete ceiling. Lena is awake because the body does not sleep through the night anymore — the body sleeps in intervals, three hours, four hours, the animal's pattern, and the intervals leave gaps and the gaps are where the phone buzzes and the buzzing is Cal's answer.

'L — There's a pro tier. 1024 fighters. Ten rounds. $50,000 purse. Same ruleset as semi-pro — standing eight count, no groin/eye gouging/biting, otherwise open. Open weight. The field is different. These aren't regional circuit guys. Some of these fighters have pro records. A few have names. The venues are bigger, the crowds are bigger, the medical is real — there's a doctor on site, not a guy with a first aid kit. Entry fee is $1,000. You want in? — Cal'

She reads it twice. The reading is not careful — the animal does not read carefully. The animal reads and the reading is the body absorbing the information the way the body absorbs food. The 1024 fighters is the depth. The depth is the thing the addiction wants. Ten rounds is two more than the last tournament and the two more is the body's engine running longer and the longer is where the body lives now. The $50,000 is the purse and the purse is the ladder's next rung and the rung is higher and the higher is the point. The pro records. The names. The fighters with names. The body's response to the names is not fear. The body's response is the pull — the addiction's pull, the same pull as the food and the pleasure and the fighting — and the pull says *these fighters will push you* and the pushing is the thing the body needs because the body has not been pushed since the wrestler who read the defensive sequence and the wrestler was three tournaments ago and three tournaments is too long without a push.

She types the response with her thumb. The calloused thumb taps the screen and the tapping is fast and the fast is not impatience. The fast is certainty.

'In. Send me the date and the location. —L'

The send button. The email leaves the phone. The phone sits on the concrete. The warehouse holds the silence and the silence is different now — the silence is the space before the ladder's next rung and the space is charged. The body stands. The standing is automatic. She walks to the heavy bag and the walking is the body's answer to the question the email asked and the answer is the same answer the body gives to everything the addiction wants. The first combination chain fires — jab, cross, hook, teep, cut, read, underhook, elevate, cross, elbow — and the chain is ten hits now because ten rounds is the new tournament and the body is already building the vocabulary for it. The bag swings. The chain creaks. The ceiling is eighteen inches above her head. The body is ready. The body has been ready. The body is the readiness.