Bernie glanced around. There was no one else by the statue. "Let me tell you something," he said and his face melted into a grin, "You laced that guy! A quick one-two straight to the jaw. I haven't seen fistwork like that since Ali-Foreman," he air-boxed at Fitz playfully, able to reach only as high as his shoulder. "Where'd you learn to hit like that anyway, basic training?"

"I don't remember," Fitz said blankly.

"Oh, you should've seen yourself," Bernie beamed. "The fighting Irish! Cracked a couple of his teeth. Split his eyebrow. I tell you, he aint gonna forget the taste of your knuckle skin."

Like a drink of cool water, Bernie's words unclogged something inside Fitz's ribcage. He is alright, Fitz thought. The boy is alright. "Can I do something to help?"

"Well," Bernie scratched his forehead. "There is a broken vent duct in the cafeteria."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you've got work to do," he chuckled.

"You're saying I am not fired?" Fitz's eye twitched. "I don't understand."

Gently, almost paternally, Bernie gazed upon Fitz's face, its confused, ogre-like roundness, "Listen, after twenty five years, I've got some sway around here, believe me," he smiled. "So when the cops came, I told them what's what. The kid called his parents, tried raising a big stink about this with the dean. He tried to get you fired. But don't you worry. I straightened him out. I straightened them all out. I told them who you were, where you came from. What you've done. I told them you were a veteran. That you fought for this country and saved lives. That you are goddamn hero. And who is he? Who the fuck is he?"

Fitz rubbed his chin pensively, "Who is he?"

"Who?"

"You know, the guy," Fitz said, trying again to remember the boy's face.

"I don't know," Bernie shrugged. "Some engineering student."

"Where is he from?"

"They said he was from Michigan or something."

"No," Fitz pressed. "You know, before that?"

Bernie grimaced, making a face like he had a mouthful of salt. "I think he is Indian... you know," he raised his index finger and touched his own forehead, exactly between the eyes. "But he didn't press any charges. Not after I was done with him. After I told him about you, he apologized. Even told me to thank you for your service."

"He apologized?" Fitz arches his face. "To me?"

"I say you did him a favor," Bernie said only half-aloud. "The kid needed straightening out. Probably had it coming. Believe me, if not for you, somebody else would work him. They are soft today, these kids. All they do is play games and bullshit on their parents' dime. Trust me, I have a son about his age. One day he wants to be a writer, another day a painter and the day after that he wants my money. They expect everything to be handed to them on a silver fucking platter..."

Fitz listened to him, realizing for the first time how short Bernie was, how bald and sagging—how much he reminded him of his father.

"They lost something, these kids," Bernie went on. "Not sure what it is. But they have no guts, no honor. They're not strong and upright. Not like they used to be. Not like you."

Not entirely sure what Bernie meant, Fitz glanced back at the sculpture. "So you're saying I'm good? This whole thing with the kid..."