He looked sleek and fierce dressed in black boxing trucks on the steps of a Vegas casino. She pasted the eight-by-ten glossy into her scrapbook chronicling the meteoric rise and fall of Mitchell Waya’s MMA career. Flipping the page, she glanced at her favorite picture—Mitchell’s smiling face on the label of a sports drink. In this photo, he looked approachable, even kind, an unusual quality in an MMA fighter. The scrapbook had once been a comfort, almost an obsession, but now she needed to move on and put it away. Turning each page with care, she took a final glance. In the first months of her recovery, she’d hounded Leonora for information about Mitchell so often she’d been banned from asking. Lucky for her, his face started showing up everywhere, even on cable. Without driving Leonora crazy, she could look at him all she liked. With sweeping dark brows and a dramatic blend of Scottish-Lakota features, Mitchell seemed incapable of taking a bad picture.
