Anyone watching would think, How cute ... big brother taking time from his busy life to be with his little sister.

The next twelve years of his busy life.

While Cassie and I are eating supper, Floyd walks through the kitchen and gives her hair a playful tug. She squeals in pain.

My muscles tense, all set to eject me from the chair and into his face. Gripping the edge of the chair, I sit still. Repeat three times after me: I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I’m not ready.

*

WHEN I wake up the next morning, the books that were on my bureau when I went to bed are lying on the floor. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not worried he’s edging toward sexual abuse like some of the parents in the anxiety book. Opal is Floyd’s drug of choice. Cat toying with baby robin, that’s the name of his game.

And it’s working. I’m not sleeping so well the last few nights. Hate the thought of him creeping into my room, watching me, messing with my stuff in the middle of the night. He never used to come in my room, so he’s breaking his own rules. If he’ll break this rule, which others will he bend out of shape?

AQ? Well, you don’t have to be very smart to plot that on the graph. But here’s another variable. RQ. Rage Quotient.

Long, humid August days with RQ and AQ rising in tandem. AQ cold. RQ hot. AQ’s message: don’t do anything. RQ’s? Go for the throat.

*

I’VE JUST had my third lesson with Docker, and I’m carrying Cassie’s plate to the table, goulash made with ground beef and stewed tomatoes—her next favorite after chicken fingers. Floyd is carrying a bowl of Tostitos into the living room, Tostitos and Ultimate Fighting being his favorites. He sticks out his foot and trips me. The plate and the goulash go flying, and I bang my face on the edge of the table.

“My apologies,” he says.

Cassie’s face crumples; she’s shaking like a leaf in the wind. Rage throbs in my chest.

Not here. Not now. Not yet.

I get a roll of paper towel, clean up the mess, and refill Cassie’s plate. We eat upstairs under her tent.

I don’t sleep well, and by morning my cheek sports a crooked blue bruise. Can’t go near Tully until it fades or she’ll bicycle straight to the RCMP.

*

THAT AFTERNOON, as Cassie and I are leaving the hunting shack, we hear music coming through the trees. Flute music.

Her eyes go huge. She probably thinks it’s Peter Pan or the Pied Piper. We follow the sound and find Glenn perched on a rock beside the river playing this—yep—really neat tune. Cassie walks right up to him. “You own Igor.”