"That anger driving you isn't helping, is it?" he asks. "You have not thrown a single punch." He's obviously trying to irritate me, and it's working. I swing wildly in an attempt to land at least one blow, but he's too quick. My hands are strewn about, as if I'm forgetting everything he's taught me thus far—all I want to do is hit him. "Your feet are everywhere," he observes. He hits my helmet again, not to hurt me—doing he's it so lightly that I barely feel it—but to annoy me; it's working. "I'd like to stop," I say. "But I thought you weren't a quitter," Jeremiah says, again slamming my helmet. "Didn't you say that when we first met?" My cheeks are bright red, so I'm glad this helmet is covering my face. He appears to be about to hit me again, but I grab my helmet and throw it