We’re sitting in our room, and Rube pulls open the wrecked corner of carpet next to my bed. In one envelope is his money. In the other is mine. Rube’s envelope holds three hundred and fifty dollars. Mine holds about one sixty. Rube has won seven fights from seven starts. My own money comes from two wins and the rest of it is tips.

Rube sits on his bed and counts his money.

‘All there?’ I enquire.

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘I was only bloody askin’!’

He looks at me.

Thinking about it, it’s actually the first time in a while that either of us has raised his voice in real anger at the other. We used to do it all the time. It was normal. Almost fun. A regular occurrence. Today, however, it’s like a bullet, buried deep into the flesh of our brother-hood. It’s a bullet of doubt — a bullet of not knowing.

Outside the window, the city counts the seconds, as we sit there in silence.

One — two — three — four —

More words get to their feet.

They belong to Rube.

He says, ‘Are the dogs on today?’

‘I think so, yeah. Saturday the eighth. Yep, that’s today.’

‘You wanna go down?’

‘Yeah, why not?’ I smile. ‘We might see those cops again and have a laugh.’

‘Yeah, they’re all right, those two.’

I take a handful of my tip change and chuck some of it Rube’s way.

‘Thanks.’

I put ten bucks in my jacket pocket. ‘No worries.’

We put our shoes on and leave the house. We write a note saying we’ll be back before dark, and place it on the kitchen table. It goes next to the Herald. That paper — it sits there, open at the employment section. It sits there like a war, and each small advertisement is another trench for a person to dive into. To hope and fight in.

We stare at it.

We pause.

We know.

Rube drinks some milk out of the carton, puts it back in the fridge and we walk out, leaving the war on the table, with the note.

Outside, we walk.

Out the front door and beyond the gate.

We’re in our usual gear. We’re jeaned, flanno-ed, gymmied and jacketed. Rube’s jacket is corduroy. It’s brown and old and ridiculous, but typically, he looks downright brilliant in it. Mine’s my black spray jacket, and I’d say I look about okay. Or at least, I hope. Somewhere on the border of it anyway.