The fight could’ve gone on. I could’ve hurt him worse, and I wanted to, if not for this voice in my head telling me no, stop, enough . The last thing I remember about that kid are his eyes, bulging with terror. After that, it gets sketchy. I don’t remember, for instance, walking back to my car. I don’t remember driving off. It’s called a “red-out,” like the alcoholic “black-out,” where there’s a lapse in memory. But there’s no forgetting what happened about five minutes later: just a few miles up the road the Highway Patrol pulls me over, and the next thing I know my hands are flat on the roof of his cruiser. He’s patting me down.