As he finished his punch, his grandfather stepped in and corrected the position of his arm.

"Mas abajo para que tenga mayor impacto," he admonished.

Roger tried it again, this time punching slightly lower on the worn, wooden post that served as his target.

His grandfather nodded in approval.

Thirty more, and he would be done for this afternoon. After school, he would practice for two hours with his grandfather every afternoon. The first hour was spent manipulating Ch'ulel; it was mentally exhausting. In the second hour, he would exercise. Repeating the punches, kicks, blocks, and footwork that comprised the unique Mayan fighting style.

He plopped, exhausted, looking forward to homework, of all things. He would meet Alicia to work on their joint project.

His mother walked out of the house holding a pitcher and three glasses. During the summer afternoons, she would make her refreshing agua de jamaica, and the three would share a glass before continuing their tasks.

She poured, and they sat on the grass, Roger lying on his back.

"Eduardo agreed. We'll be ready in three days. His cousin has a house in Yuma," his mother whispered to his grandfather. He heard but paid little attention.

"They're already in Guadalajara. Searching. We must go," His grandfather replied, urgency in his voice.

...

"Rogelio, Rogelio," his mother shook him awake, "we have to go. Get up and get dressed."

Groggily, disoriented, he woke, looked out the window, and noticed it was still night.

"Ma, let me sleep. The sun isn't out yet."

"Rogelio, we have to go. Get up now!" She shook him again.

"Get up now, Rogelio!" His father shouted angrily, "Do as your mother says!"

With no other option, he got up and started to dress.

...

His grandfather walked beside him. He carried a small backpack, the few things his mother had allowed. He yawned, already missing his bed.

He looked back as they left the city on the old dirt road. The glow of the city lights the only sign of civilization. Ahead pitch black, the silhouettes of his mother and father barely visible.

"When you're older, stronger, come back and get everything we're leaving behind," his grandfather said, "for now, you must return. We're very proud of you, mijo!"

He walked into the darkness ahead, alone.

"Ssss-Heeaaah!" Roger gasped, trying to fill his screaming lungs. His head split; the pain was unbearable. Hands pushed on his chest. He opened his eyes. He tried to sit up.

"Stay down," a paramedic with a resuscitator in his hands commanded.

"Rhythm is steady. Let's get him on the gurney," said the paramedic doing the compressions. He stopped the AED, and they started to move him.

Claire's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob as tears carved hot trails down her cheeks. Her other hand clenched the fabric of her pajama, a physical attempt to anchor herself in a moment that threatened to sweep her away.

The relief that washed over her when their eyes met was palpable. Hope returned amongst the chaos of flashing lights and murmuring voices.

"Don't you dare scare me like that again," she whispered, a mix of admonishment and plea.

Roger noticed the pallor on Claire's face, the way her hands trembled as she reached out to him.

Can't leave her alone, not now, Roger thought, the fear of what almost happened clawing at his resolve.

Have to fight for her. This thought anchored him, giving him the strength to push through the pain.

"I'll be okay," he managed, a promise he intended to keep.

"You've got a strong heart, man," one paramedic joked.

"Strong enough to come back from the dead and still argue with us," the other added, offering a brief respite from the moment's gravity.

"Looks like you've got nine lives, huh?" He quipped, securing the straps around him.

"Let's not test them all today, though," he added with a wink, a gentle reminder of the seriousness masked by his humor.

With practiced ease, the paramedics worked in unison, their movements swift and sure. One caught Roger's gaze, offering a nod that spoke volumes of reassurance without a single word uttered.

As the ambulance doors shut, Roger's gaze locked onto a shadowy figure standing apart from the gathered onlookers. Something about the figure's stance—a patient, predatory stillness—sent a shiver down his spine. Even as the doors closed, cutting off his view, Roger knew the battle was far from over.

Roger reached for Claire's hand as the ambulance siren wailed, cutting through the early morning silence.

The cold plastic of the oxygen mask pressed against his face, an uncomfortable but necessary intrusion. Above him, the ambulance's lights flickered, harsh and sterile, while the scent of antiseptic mingled with the metallic tang of his fear.

Lying on the gurney, Roger's mind raced. This attack was no amateur job. The men had done this before. Maybe it would be best for Claire if he left.

At the hospital, as the paramedics wheeled him inside, Claire squeezed his hand one last time.

In the brief moment, their eyes locked, a silent conversation passed between them—promises made without words, vows of support and protection that needed no vocalization to be understood.

"I'll be right here," she assured him, her presence a steadfast promise in the whirlwind of medical urgency.

As the hospital doors closed behind him, separating them, Claire stood, a resolve settling over her. This incident had peeled back the layers of their relationship, revealing a depth she hadn't dared to acknowledge. Now, faced with the prospect of a future teetering on the brink, she knew the path she had to take.

She whispered, "Together, no matter what comes." It was a promise to him, to herself, to their future.

An army of security slowly gathered around her. Mr. Doyle among them.

"We'll meet my mother and sister," Claire's garbled voice sounded through the headset. Roger shifted his attention to her from the rapidly unfurling long island coastline as the helicopter ate the miles toward Water Mill.

He had been released from the hospital hours before. Claire had insisted they leave New York City. A short ride to the Gettysburg Heliport, and they were on their way.

He was about to meet his in-laws. He fidgeted in his seat.

"They don't know anything about Gramp's request, and I want to keep it that way. So you're my husband. We met a few years back. No need to give details." Claire continued her instructions.

Anxiety knotted in Roger's stomach, a stark contrast to the adrenaline of their flight. He had navigated the dangers of New York and faced down calmly. Yet, the prospect of sitting across from Claire's mother and sister unsettled him more than any physical danger.

Just keep quiet and observe, he told himself. He'd never even met the parents of his brief girlfriend in high school, and they were Mexican. How would Claire's mother react?

A fleeting image of Jane Fonda giving him the third degree, á la JLO style, flickered through his mind. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity, wondering if he should brace for flying teacups instead of the pointed questions. At least, he mused, he hadn't signed up for a monster-in-law... or had he?

Roger took a deep breath as the helicopter's shadow danced over the opulent Water Mill estate, bracing himself for the landing and the imminent introductions.

The helicopter landed in the grass clearing next to the pool, and they descended.

A young, annoyed Claire stood by the pool in a very revealing bikini. Daggers shot from her eyes as her long hair swirled around her, making her seem like an auburn-haired medusa.

Besides the fiery presence of her sister, Claire's mother awaited more quietly, her expression unreadable but her posture emanating a quiet authority that commanded the scene just as effectively.

Roger caught his breath from the sight of Claire's sister and the palpable tension that seemed to radiate from her.

So this is the welcoming committee, he thought wryly, adjusting his approach mentally as he stepped onto solid ground.

"Claire, do you always have to make an entrance?"

"Hello to you too, Audrey!"

"And you brought the help with you!" Audrey's voice dripped with disdain as she swept her gaze over Roger, a smirk curling the corners of her mouth.

Claire squared her shoulders, facing her sister with defiance.

"This is my husband, Roger Catzín!" Her voice carried a mixture of pride and challenge.

Audrey rolled her eyes so dramatically that it was a wonder they didn't stick that way.

"My sister, Audrey. My mother, Stephanie," said Claire, pointing to the pair. The restraint in her voice was palpable.

"Roger, was it?" Audrey tilted her head, the pretense of forgetfulness thinly veiling her scorn. She crossed her arms tightly as though physically repelling the very notion of his presence.

"Look, Mother, Claire found herself a man. Do you do charity work?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm, clearly unimpressed—a direct quip at Claire's ability at romance.

Audrey's sneer seemed less about Roger and more about finding something to bring Claire down.

Then, turning, Audrey mouthed, "She married the help," to her mother with an exaggerated expression.

Audrey dismissed Roger with a flick of her wrist, her smirk not quite reaching her eyes, betraying a flicker of insecurity.

Stephanie regarded Roger with a cool, evaluating gaze, her silence more intimidating than any words. Finally, she spoke, her voice smooth but authoritative.

"Claire, you could've at least informed us of your...guest. We have standards to uphold, after all."

The serene water of the pool mirrored the clear blue sky, an oasis of calm that belied the storm brewing on its edge. Around them, the extravagance of the estate sprawled, an ostentatious statement of wealth and power, yet felt oddly insubstantial as the real drama unfolded.

Stephanie turned her gaze toward Roger, the chill in her eyes belying the warmth of her words.

"Welcome to our home, Mr. Catzín." The smile she offered him was as tight as her grip on her cocktail glass, betraying the effort behind her hospitality.

As Stephanie's gaze lingered on Roger, a flicker of something else crossed her features—a momentary lapse that hinted at past regrets or lost dreams, quickly masked by her regained composure.

"We always enjoy new... acquaintances," Stephanie said, the emphasis on 'acquaintances' a barbed reminder of their standards.

"Especially those who bring such... unique perspectives," she added, her smile polite but eyes calculating.

"I trust you'll find it adequate," she said as if telling a beggar who had been given a gourmet meal.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the estate, dappling the pool's water with light and darkness. It was a scene of deceptive tranquility, the perfect backdrop for the storm brewing between the characters.

Roger noted the tightening of Stephanie's lips, the flash of genuine anger in Audrey's eyes, and the determined set of Claire's shoulders—each detail a piece of the puzzle he was trying to solve.

Roger caught the slight tremor in Stephanie's grip on her glass, wondering if behind that veneer of control lay a sea of insecurities. Audrey's hostility seemed more straightforward but no less puzzling. What did he represent to her that sparked such immediate disdain?

It was like navigating a minefield, where every step could be catastrophic.

A knot of tension twisted in his gut, a cocktail of anger and determination simmering beneath the surface. Each barbed comment from Audrey and Stephanie's cold assessment felt like a challenge he was increasingly determined to meet head-on.

I'm not here to play their games, he thought, determined not to let them see him falter.

Claire's jaw tightened at Audrey's barb and Stephanie's veiled criticism. She stepped closer to Roger, her hand finding his, a silent show of unity.

"Roger is part of the family now, whether you like it or not," she said in the matter-of-fact tone of someone used to being in command.

As the awkward introductions faded into strained conversation, Roger's resolve solidified. He wasn't just an outsider looking in; he was a man with a role to play in this complex family drama. And he intended to play it with all the strength he could muster.

So I brought Roger back in a Harry Potter style. What do you think?

Roger met his in-laws. Have you had to meet in-laws? Let me know what it was like.