Two kicks came.
Not from the front. From the side — the low, precise, sweeping kicks of women who have been trained and who have been expecting exactly this reaction.
Celia's kick caught his left knee.
Gia's kick caught his right ankle.
Both simultaneously. Both timed with the particular efficiency of women who have fought together and who have decided that this boy is not going to reach the water.
Jacob went down.
His face hit the dirt before his knees did — the full, sprawling, uncontrolled collapse of a man whose legs have been removed from the equation while his momentum is still carrying him forward.
He hit the ground.
Hard.
The air left him.
Before he could inhale, there were hands on his wrists — Marla's and Fatima's, both of them moving with the speed of women who have been positioned for this, his arms pulled above his head and pinned to the grass.
Then his legs.
