Frank studied him carefully. Samuel was sixty-four years old at the time. He was lean rather than frail, moving with a deliberate stiffness. He possessed thick, powerful forearms lined with prominent veins, and a left knee that stiffened noticeably whenever he stood in one place for too long. His hair had turned almost entirely silver-gray, clipped short to his scalp, and an old, jagged scar ran horizontally beneath his chin—a souvenir from a life he no longer spoke of.
“The job starts at five in the morning,” Frank said, tapping his pen on the desk. “I need the floors mopped, the showers scrubbed with bleach, the lockers wiped down, the bathrooms disinfected, the trash emptied, and the mirrors cleaned. Everything. And I mean everything. Fighters are disgusting creatures.”
