Scott was angry. She could tell by the rapid pounding fists, the sweat dripping off his forehead, the strung-taught muscles straining his sodden t-shirt and the pained grunts as he swung. Scott worked off his steam either in this room or on the paths of the island. Tonight his wrapped hands were leaving red smears on the canvas. She stared in shock, her hand going to her mouth. Her beautiful eldest, so distressed he was hurting himself. He couldn’t- Scott stumbled and grabbed the swinging canvas bag. Gripping it between his two bloodied hands, he swore, the muscles across his shoulders rippling as he dropped his forehead against the punching bag and moaned. The only sound left in the room was the creak of the chain supporting the bag as its swing drew to a standstill. And a single whimper.