The Silent Girl

is made of.
    One of the men laughs. “We’re just visiting, honey.”
    “Did I invite you?”
    “You look like you could use the company.”
    “You look like you could use a brain.”
    Not a wise way to handle the situation, I think. Now their lust is mingled with anger, a dangerous combination. Yet the girl stands perfectly still, perfectly calm, brandishing that pitiful kitchen utensil. As the men lunge, I am already on the balls of my feet, ready to spring.
    She springs first. One leap and her foot thuds straight into the first man’s sternum. It’s an inelegant but effective blow and he staggers, gripping his chest as if he cannot breathe. Before the second man can react, she is already spinning toward him, and she slams the can opener against the side of his head. He howls and backs away.
    This has gotten interesting.
    The first man has recovered and rushes at her, slamming her so hard that they both go sprawling onto the floor. She kicks and punches, and her fist cracks into his jaw. But fury has inured him to pain and with a roar he rolls on top of her, immobilizing her with his weight.
    Now the second man jumps back in. Grabbing her wrists, he pins them against the floor. Youth and inexperience have landed her in a calamity that she cannot possibly escape. As fierce as she is, the girl is green and untrained, and the inevitable is about to happen. The first man has unzipped her jeans and he yanks them down past her skinny hips. His arousal is evident, his trousers bulging. Never is a man more vulnerable to attack.
    He doesn’t hear me coming. One moment he’s unzipping his fly. The next, he’s on the floor, his jaw shattered, loose teeth spilling from his mouth.
    The second man barely has time to release the girl’s hands and jump up, but he’s not quick enough. I am a tiger and he is nothing more than a lumbering buffalo, stupid and helpless against my strike. With a shriek he drops to the ground, and judging by the grotesque angle of his arm, his bone has been snapped in two.
    I grab the girl and yank her to her feet. “Are you unhurt?”
    She zips up her jeans and stares at me. “Who the hell are
you
?”
    “That’s for later. Now we go!” I bark.
    “How did you do that? How did you bring them down so fast?”
    “Do you want to learn?”
    “Yes!”
    I look at the two men groaning and writhing at our feet. “Then here is the first lesson: Know when to run.” I shove her toward the door. “That time would be now.”
    I WATCH HER EAT . For a small girl, she has the appetite of a wolf, and she devours three chicken tacos, a lake of refried beans, and a large glass of Coca-Cola. Mexican food was what she wanted, so we sit in a café where mariachi music plays and the walls are adorned with gaudy paintings of dancing señoritas. Though the girl’s features are Chinese, she is clearly American, from her cropped hair to her tattered jeans. A crude and feral creature who slurps up the last of her Coke before noisily gnawing on the ice cubes.
    I begin to doubt the wisdom of this venture. She is already too old to be taught, too wild to learn discipline. I should release her back to the streets, if that’s where she wants to go, and find another way. But then I notice the scars on her knuckles and remember how close she came to single-handedly taking down the two men. She has raw talent and is fearless—two things that cannot be taught.
    “Do you remember me?” I ask.
    The girl sets down her glass and frowns. For an instant I think I see a flash of recognition, but then it’s gone. She shakes her head.
    “It was a long time ago,” I say. “Twelve years.” An eternity for a girl so young. “You were small.”
    She shrugs. “No wonder I don’t remember you.” She reaches in her jacket, pulls out a cigarette, and starts to light it.
    “You’re polluting your body.”
    “It’s my body,” she retorts.
    “Not if you wish to train.” I reach across the table and snatch the cigarette from her lips. “If you want to learn, your attitude must change. You must show respect.”
    She snorts. “You sound like my mother.”
    “I knew your mother. In Boston.”
    “Well, she’s dead.”
    “I know. She wrote me last month. She told me she was ill and had very little time left. That’s why I’m here.”
    I’m surprised to see tears glisten in the girl’s eyes and she quickly turns away, as though ashamed to reveal weakness. But in that vulnerable instant, before she hides her eyes,