Muscle memories of other fights give Abraham enough of an edge to endure the sudden starts and stops of the grapple he finds himself in, his hands tangled and confused in the layers of clothing, the man's legs beneath him finding purchase in his gut and driving the breath out of him. The broken wood of the table and the floor of the dining hall are no match to the cobbles and mud of the city streets he's left behind, but the hot singing blood in his ears is the same, the narrowing of the world down to what he can grasp and grip against.

The stranger somehow finds his freedom first, using it to swing one big paw on an arc that Abraham can't twist away from, pain exploding across his face and inside his mouth as his teeth cut into his cheek. He yowls like a cat, trying to bring his hands up to find a way around the rich goy's throat, satisfying himself instead with pummelling his ribs, his belly, anything within reach, blood and spit drooling out of his mouth as he leans over him.

There's shouting in English as the expected authorities arrive. Abraham is indiscriminate with his anger, flailing as hands take him under the arms and around his neck and haul him back, shouting curses in Yiddish, Polish and finally Russian as he struggles to get free and reach the smug goyim at the molten center of his ire. A glimpse of staring faces is all he gets of the rest of the dining hall, then the doors passing and a wash of cool fresh air that smells like salt and iodine, and the hands on his back push him out in a stumble until he hits the railing and slides down again, panting and staring uselessly at the loud objections of a man in a White Star Lines uniform.