LITMIR.BIZ

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so of course he wouldn’t have one. It’s still strange.

      Once we’re airborne, the kid continues where we left off. “People say I’m too gullible. Guess I am.” He extends his hand. “Bobby Phan. You are?”

      I resist smiling as we shake. Kid’s got the demeanor of a confident twenty-five-year-old, though he can’t be much over twelve, fourteen at the most. He’s Vietnamese for sure. I had a Vietnamese student named Phan, a lawyer. Made it to brown belt before he took a job with a higher paying firm in Seattle.

      “Sam Reeves. Nice to meet you, Bobby. May I ask how old you are?”

      “Yes,” he says.

      When he doesn’t say anything I lift my eyebrows.

      “You didn’t ask me.” His mouth struggles against a smile.

      I laugh. “Oh, okay, so that’s the way it’s going to be.”

      “Yup,” he giggles, pointing at me. “I’m almost seventeen. You thought older, right?” When I nod, he says, “I get that a lot. I’m only five feet three but I’m told I’m mature for my age. My aunt says I’m an old soul. Not sure what that means, but it sounds better than ‘butthead,’ you know? Hey, you got some serious guns, man.”

      Guns? I’m not packing…

      “Your arms,” he says, pointing. “Huge. I pump iron too.”

      I’m wearing a short-sleeved blue polo shirt and blue jeans. “Oh. Yes. Thanks. I can tell that you lift.” Actually, I can’t tell, but what’s the harm in giving a kid a boost?

      “Thanks.” He studies my face for a moment. “Wait a minute. Reeves? You said Sam Reeves, right?”

      Oh, please. I know the shooting was on the newswire, but who would have thought a sixteen-year-old in California would read the newspaper.

      “You’re into the martial arts, right?” The kid’s brain is going a hundred miles an hour while I’m still trying to wake up. “I thought I recognized you from somewhere when I first sat down, but I wasn’t sure because your eyes were half shut and you were twitching and stuff.” He continues to study my face and look me up and down. “Yeah, that was you all right. In Black Belt magazine last winter, like the November or December issue, right?”

      I nod. “They did a little story on me, a retro piece about my competition years.”

      “Yes! That was it. Oh man, how weird is it that I’m sitting here next to you on a plane?”

      Yes, it is. In fact, maybe too coincidental. The plane is full except for a couple seats next to me. Then a guy sits down and “recognizes” me from a magazine. Says he’s seventeen, looks younger, but maybe he’s older than seventeen. Can’t always tell with Asians. Maybe he’s working with Lai Van Tan, the big man in Saigon who sent goons after Samuel, Mai, and me.

      Geeze. Maybe I’m too suspicious for my own good. For sure, that horrific week in Portland took its toll on my paranoia. Of course nearly everyone really did want a piece of my hide, or at least it seemed like everyone.

      “I practice martial arts, too,” the boy says. “Taekwondo. Got my black belt in February.”

      “Very good,” I say. “That’s a wonderful accomplishment.”

      “Thank you. I love it,” he gushes, lifting his fists to each side of his face as if guarding his head. He does a quick bob and weave. “I’m a good kicker but I need more training on my hands. My teacher is great but we mostly train our legs.”

      Okay, he’s not a secret agent for the big boss. And I’m wrong about him being somber. If the kid gets any more excited, he’ll explode. I’d love to have had him in a class. Some students I have to continuously encourage to practice. Enthusiastic guys like Bobby, though, I have to rein in so that they don’t over train.

      “That’s the thing about the United States,” I say. “We’re a melting pot of martial arts schools. Maybe you can talk to your teacher about helping you with your hands or you can look for another school that emphasizes hand techniques. There’s got to be a lot of them in Orange County.”

      “There is. There’s a Japanese school that’s close, shotokan, I think. There’s a kung fu school too, and a muay Thai gym. There’s a Vietnamese school too. Vovinam.”

      “All good, although I don’t know anything about Vovinam. Visit each one a few times and see which one fits your needs and personality. Talk to the students to see what they say about their teacher and the instruction.”

      “Thank you. How long have you trained?”

      “Almost twenty-nine years. Started when I was around six. My grandfather and mother would drive me to my classes.”

      “Whoa, twenty-nine years!” he says too loudly. “Almost twice as long as I’ve been alive.”

      The same flight attendant who woke me from my dream appears next to Bobby. “Good morning, gents. May I interest you in something to drink?” Her eyes flirt with mine. She smiles.

      “Milk,” I tell her. “And could I also have some water?”

      “You certainly may.” She does the eye contact thing for a long moment before turning to Bobby.

      “Coke… no wait.” He looks at me, at my arms. “I’ll have milk too, and water, please.”

      “Coming right up.”

      “Dude, she was so hittin’ on you,” Bobby teases, after we get our drinks and the attendant moves on. “She was eating you like a sandwich.”

      “Hey, some guys got it,” I say, shrugging with feigned nonchalance. “Sadly, some don’t.”

      So it takes a smile from a pretty flight attendant and a little idol worship from a kid to pull me out of my nightmare funk. Usually I’m a whole lot depressed after I have one of my dreams, which I get about twice a week now, down from nearly every night. They increased after Samuel and Mai left six weeks ago and increased even more during the grand jury hearing. About three weeks ago, the dreams slowed to every other night; this week I’ve had only two: One on Thursday and the other a few moments ago, another daytime one. Doc Kari would probably say that it was brought on by the stress of this trip, especially the stress of the last few days. Ah, stress, food of champions.

      Bobby takes a chug from his milk carton and sets it down on the tray. “There were lots of pictures of you in the article, one of you wearing a tank top. You’re ripped man. How much training would it take to get me into that kinda shape?”

      “Thank you,” I chuckle. “Just keep at it and you will be there faster than you can imagine.”

      He frowns. “Can I ask you a weird question?”

      “I’m not sure.”

      He chuckles. “What’s the difference between being a bully and just being strong enough not to be afraid of anyone.”

      The kid continues to impress. He might be sixteen, but he’s sharp and savvy beyond his years. His aunt is right: He’s an old soul.

      “It’s all about intention, about why you train. The whales are some of the biggest mammals on earth. There are few creatures that prey on them so they’re “allowed” a gentle nature. But if you threaten a mama whale’s baby, mama’s a formidable foe.”

      “I get it. So is that why you train so hard?”

      “There are a lot of reasons. Physical fitness is part of it. Self-defense. A fascination of the art and science of it.”

      “How hard was it for you to go through the ranks?”

      “I worked hard, but in many ways I was lucky.”

      “How so?”

      “Nature helped me, to begin with. The

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