“It’s a nice secret,” she says, smiling at me, her chin smeared with raspberry jelly.

Normal. That’s all I want. Normal.

*

EIGHT O’CLOCK.Cassie’s already asleep. I close my bedroom door and walk downstairs, past Floyd and the NASCAR races, past Opal, who’s sorting a big box of polished stones, through the kitchen and out the door, grabbing my hoodie off the hook on the way.

Easy. So easy it blows my mind.

I jog to the road and turn right.

Docker’s not home, no GM pickup in the driveway, no lights on in the house. I don’t have a clue what I’m going to say to him. I settle myself on the step to compose my speech.

The mosquitoes discover me. I zip up my hood, walk around, jog up and down the driveway, practice blocks and strikes.

Floyd goes to bed early; once he realizes I’m still out, odds are he’ll lock the door. I have my own key, but a pissed-off Floyd I don’t need. I’ll give Docker until nine o’clock.

It’s getting dark earlier now that we’re partway into August. I practice locating the mosquitoes by their whining then whacking them. I sit down again, lean against the side door, and drift off.

Gravel crunching, slam of a door. A light shining in my eyes. I blink, throwing my arms in front of my face.

“Hey, Brick,” Docker says.

“What’s the time?” I say in a panic.

“Quarter to ten.”

I should have been home half an hour ago. I pull myself upright. “Will you let me come back to karate?”

So much for the fancy speech.

He says, “Come inside.”

His kitchen is neat and tidy, curtains over the sink, dishes done. “Want a coffee?” he says, turning his back as he pours himself one from the pot on the stove and puts the mug in the microwave to nuke it.

“No, thanks.”

A colored photo is stuck to the refrigerator door. I squint at it, resisting the urge to step closer. Docker, no gray in his hair, a blond woman snuggled into him, and a little girl with blond curls, all three laughing like happiness comes easy.

Docker lives alone. This has a bad feel to it. I remember his face when he took Cassie’s hand.

“Ginger ale?” he says, glancing at me as the microwave beeps. “Or diet Coke?”

“I shouldn’t have quit the dojo—I’m sorry. I didn’t even have the guts to tell you face-to-face.”

He takes a sip of coffee. “Why did you quit?”

Because I got a life sentence of twelve years. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why do you want to come back?”

“To learn more blocks, better footwork. Get faster.”

“Why?”