The morning after their first day of training, Chuck couldn't walk. He tried to get out of bed, but his legs simply wouldn't work. He felt as if he'd been beaten with a stick, which was actually pretty close to the truth. The day before, while he'd done pushups, Meg had whacked his legs with a ruler if his form dipped even the slightest.

Groaning, Chuck dragged himself along the floor until he reached the bathroom, where he downed 1,200 milligrams of ibuprofen before running a cold bath. After an hour or so, he felt fit to stand, so he tentatively brushed his teeth, put on clothes, and went downstairs. However, he couldn't just walk straight; he had to turn sideways and shimmy down.

"I'm going to kill you, Meg," he said as he slowly shimmied sideways. Though even as he spoke the words, he felt... happy? Yes, he realized. I feel happy. He'd known the road to fitness wouldn't be easy, but he was committed to remaking his body. The pain that racked him with every step was a sign that something was working.

Either that, or I'm broken beyond repair, he thought.

The following months were the most challenging of Chuck's life. Knowledge had come easily to him, but this? This was something different. In this, he was defying destiny, shunning the easy path life had given him for something that seemed impossible.

Every day after school, Chuck went to Meg's house, and they wrestled before Meg put him through a workout. The exercises never got easier, though he did get stronger, and it wasn't long before he could last two, three, or even four rounds against Meg without becoming winded. Still, he never won. Each day, she put him on his back or wrapped him into such painful contortions he tapped out.

Still, Chuck fought. And as he fought, he grew. He built stamina and gained strength. In addition to running Chuck through exercises, Meg put him on a meal plan, ensuring he hit his macros and ate enough calories. His skinny frame must've been yearning for muscle because it grew with aplomb, spreading across his body faster than kudzu. Like water to parched earth, Meg's ministrations brought out the best in Chuck, and it wasn't long before he'd matched her in weight. More than a few people in his classes had even started to look at him like something more than gum on the bottom of their shoes.

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With every lift, Chuck grew stronger. Each stretch made him more limber, and each repetition of a punch or kick lodged in his memory, slowly wearing mental furrows until they became familiar. Whereas Chuck had once spent several hours after school each day probing the firewalls of foreign governments, he now spent every single moment of free time running, jumping, lifting, or training. When he wasn't engaged in any physical activity, he was reading about it, or else watching YouTube videos to try and learn new probes and defenses.

One day, three months after they'd started training, Chuck and Meg were wrestling in her backyard when he saw his opportunity. After missing on a single-leg takedown, Meg had been slow to raise her defense. For a split second, her head was just low enough for a front headlock. A younger version of Chuck wouldn't have even seen the slip--much less been quick enough to capitalize on it--but this Chuck was different. He'd heard it said that someone needed to invest 10,000 hours into something to become a master, and he was nowhere near 10,000 hours of fighting. But recognizing opportunity? He'd been doing that all his life.

With a roar that encompassed three months of contained rage, Chuck locked up with Meg. Then he brought his right hand down on the back of her neck like a club. The blow contained no mercy; all mercy had been driven out of him after three months of continual practice. Meg, stunned, dropped her head even lower. It was the opening Chuck needed. As quickly as he'd ever moved, he drove her head under his right arm and dropped his full weight on top of her.

Crunch. They hit the ground and Chuck heard Meg's breath leave her in a rush. But even stunned and winded, Meg was slippery as a fish. She recovered quickly, trying to escape his grasp even as he got an arm under her legs and tried to catch his opposite wrist. Her bucking head caught his nose and he felt something crack, but he didn't let go, not even as blood sheeted down his chin.

"You're not... going to... escape," he gasped, holding onto Meg for dear life. At last, he found his other wrist. When he did, he twisted with all his strength, driving Meg across the hard ground and onto her back.

One, he counted as he tasted coppery blood. Two... three...

It was done. Groaning, he released Meg and lay on his back, staring up at the gray sky. He was covered in mud and his nose bled freely, and only now did he realize that several jagged pebbles were embedded in the skin of his arms. But he'd won. He'd finally managed to pin Jaybird.

Beside him, Meg rolled over as well. The two of them lay like that, staring up at the winter sky, as they caught their breath.

"Pretty good," Meg said. "You've come a long way. What do you say to best of three?"