FADE IN: INT. HAZARD COUNTY, ROUTE 15, 4:52 AM The dark before dawn. November. A single headlamp moves along the shoulder of the road, east toward the county line. The beam catches frost on the asphalt and the dry grass on the cut banks and the yellow center line that goes straight as a surveyor's mark into the black ahead. DENNY VOSS (22) runs. Lean, compact, the kind of build that reads as ordinary until you see him move. He runs with a deliberateness that has nothing to do with joy. This is work scheduled for 4:45 AM every morning since he was fifteen. He rounds a bend. Ahead on the left: a cement-block building set back from the road behind a gravel lot. The sign above the door is hand-lettered in red paint on white wood, faded enough to suggest it has been there for years: VOSS BOXING Interior fluorescent light shows through two high narrow windows. The building is open. Has been since five o'clock. Denny's stride does not change as he passes. He has another mile.