SEVENTY TWO

Sweat dripped onto the floor from his hair that fell around his forehead as Ezra bent his back to fill his lungs with oxygen. His whole body was drenched in sweat and glistening brown. Muscles bulged beneath his taut skin. But Ezra was still not done with his training. He punched the bag once again with more ferocity and brutality as if the bag was the source of all the anger he hated. He pummeled it, giving it all he had, then kicked it hard until the bag flew high into the air, and then swung back at it in a few hard swings until the bag finally slowed down.

Ezra gasped again. He picked up a bottle of mineral water at the far end of the room, then splashed half of it onto his sweaty face. It feels good. His skin was cold, the sweat washed off his face. And he then emptied the bottle by drinking the entire contents very quickly. He threw the bottle into the trash can. It went in as smoothly as he was throwing a basketball into the hoop.

Moments later Ezra heard clapping from the do