Turns out I hadn’t recognized Walter’s hand in my dream. He swiveled to face Ale Skin and pulled out a blade like the thing had been on standby. The effect of the beer was gone. Walter was alert. He lunged at Ale Skin, who dodged him by a whisker.

Ale Skin pulled a knife from the back of his pants and turned to face him.

Other skinheads milled about too.

Miseria was shoving one of them around, come from hell knows where. She grabbed a bottle and I looked away. Next thing I knew, the bottle was broken and the guy on the floor.

Ale Skin shrugged off his jacket, eyes fixed on my brother. He was waiting for Walter to attack with his blade. And Walter was waiting for the moment Skin’s knife would shift in his left hand: in his face, I saw something animal-like. Skin lunged and my brother leapt back. But Skin kept pressing him with the hand that held his jacket. Walter jabbed again and Skin swept the blade away with his jacket, then kicked out his leg. Walter was hurt. He used his forearms to keep the knife off his body. Until, finally, he landed a kick on Skin, whose knife flew far from his body. Spotting an opening, Walter sent a volley of punches at Ale Skin’s mug, knocking him down. Things had taken a turn again. My brother slammed Skin furiously into the ground.

The bouncer rushed in, pussyfooted behind Walter, hauled him up and clamped him. Ale sprung up. Knowing Walter couldn’t shake the two of them off together, I scanned the room for help. But everybody was busy tussling. No one was free.

Now Ale Skin was the one caning my brother. Walter took punch after punch, one two, one two. He couldn’t move, I couldn’t watch. I spotted Ale Skin’s blade. It wasn’t far. I had to grab it, no matter what. I tried to get close, but a hard kick floored me. I couldn’t move.

“Get her,” I heard someone say.

I looked up and glimpsed the guy who’d punted me. Miseria and another chick rushed to tackle him. The guy stepped back and fell over me.

A hand swiped Skin’s knife from right in front of my eyes, and brushed me. I knew that hand. I knew the arm that grabbed the man on top of me and heaved him up like a trash bag then slugged him, knocking him out.

It was my old man.

Realizing this, my breath caught in my throat.

My old man hid the knife and snuck up to where Walter was brawling. He body-slammed Ale Skin, forcing him to stop swinging and retreat. Shocked, the bouncer who held my brother loosened his grip enough for him to wriggle free.

“Out of the way, you old shit,” said Ale Skin.

And my old man, fast like someone who knows how to move in shadow, pulled out the knife and drove it into his flesh.