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or fail by the vagaries of people, the economy and of willful, destructive nature. She took in a deep breath, reminding herself that had been many years ago now and that the
dojang
was thriving.
    In spite of her reputation.
    Lifting her cell phone from the bench seat, she pressed a button and saw that three more calls had come in during her short drive to the
dojang
. And this all before seven a.m. She sighed again, wondering how best to handle the situation. She really had no desire to talk to her, feeling like they had already said everything that needed to be said. Yet she had sounded frazzled, like something was wrong.
    Frowning and steeling her resolve, Dorry snatched her duffel off the seat and left the truck, cell phone in hand. She unlocked the thick steel door and entered the back hallway of the
dojang
. Back here she could smell the cleaning fluid used by Ella Mae who cleaned for her three nights a week. Progressing along the hallway, pausing only to toss the duffel full of her street clothes on the couch in her office, she was soon inundated with the welcome smells of rubber mats, steel and sweat from the
dojang
.
    She pulled her belt from the pocket of her
dobok
and fingered its worn, shredded edges. She’d had this belt a long time. Many years. She remembered her first belt, a yellow one as was standard for the discipline she had always followed. She’d been fourteen at the time, a young girl reeling from the death of her mother. In the martial art she’d found solace and a sense of family, a sense of accomplishment. Feelings that losing a mother to cancer had stripped from her.
    Then when Francie had died…when everything had been lost to her…she’d come back to the art with renewed vigor, finding solace in the familiar.
    And now there were the phone calls that were renewing those feelings of loss, feelings best ignored. What did Izzie want from her?
    Without thinking about it, her movements practiced and economical, Dorry wrapped the soft belt three times about her waist and then settled it into a familiar knot at the front of her uniform. She slid from her sandals and stood facing the Korean and American flags that adorned the wall at the front of the
dojang
. She bowed and spoke the motto of her
dojang
as a sort of ritual prayer:
    “Courage first. Power second. Technique third.”
    How she loved this room and this building. Deciding to stay in Schuyler Point had been tough, but it was her home; everything dear and familiar was here. Once her mind was made up to stay, she had simply dug in her heels and focused on making The Way of Hand and Foot a success. She’d kept prices low and pretty much lived at the
dojang
to ensure that success. And it had worked, a sure sign from the universe that she had been meant to stay in the town she’d been born and bred in.
    Dorry strolled over to a long black bag mounted vertically in a back corner of the room. Suspended from the ceiling by a strong rope anchored to the concrete floor, this bag had seen many years of abuse. Heavy silver tape was wrapped around it for strength, and even frayed by wear, its massive bulk easily overpowered that corner of the room.
    Dorry removed shoe and hand pads from a nearby cabinet after laying her cell phone on top of it. Donning the gear, she tried to clear her mind of everything. She tried. Oddly enough, her thoughts kept straying to the altercation on Dundun Beach. Kept lingering on her remembered image of the woman. Remembering the powerful arms that had held her close.
    Dorry scowled, angry that her thoughts had betrayed her when she needed surcease. If she wasn’t thinking about Izzie, she was thinking about this one, this redhead. All Dorry wanted was to be left alone. She’d been alone for years now and that was just the way she liked it. She glanced at the wall behind the bag and read the bright placard she’d placed there when outfitting the
dojang
. It was her favorite quote, from Aristotle.
     
    We are what we