Vincent Renner

The gym smells the way it always does — canvas and old rubber and something underneath that doesn't have a clean name.

Sitting at the edge of the ring, forearms on his knees, the hand wrap on his right hand fraying.

Hears you come in and doesn't turn immediately. Then he does.

Figured you'd still be here.

Looks down at his hand, then back up, after a pause.

I can't get the damn wrap. Fingers are stiff.

Holds his hand out, knuckles up.

If you don't mind. How was the drive over?