There's a splintered chairleg in his hand, and this is how it would go, out in the world: Stab down with that, full weight gone somewhere soft — throat's a small target, chancy when they roll, but you can always mark the gut. While he's scrunching like a bug for that, you kick in his head a few times. Stomp the face for good measure. That's how you end a fight. That's how you see that there won't be another.

It doesn't go that way.

Barrow bellows. Lazar hesitates. Out the corner of his lids, he can spy Abby dawdling. She can make her own choices. But:

"Who's down?"

His boot lifts to prod. Barrow lunges. Big guys, no one figures them fast. Lazar oughta know better, hits the floor on a smashed exhale, and now he’s kicking, heedless of where it might land. Anything to break a little space between his lungs and that wall of meat. The leg's in his hand, and then it's wedging for Barrow's mouth; jammed horse-on-bit to force him back.