What does he want? The big reconciliation scene with me slobbering all over him? I watch him lurch through the kitchen, leaning on the chairs for support. Then I slide down the wall to the floor and rest my head on my knees.

12.5 [rerun]

BY THE time Floyd comes downstairs wearing a fresh shirt, his damp hair combed neatly to his scalp, I’ve managed to wash my hands and splash water on my face.

I feel like I just ran the Boston Marathon.

He leans against the doorframe, hipshot. It doesn’t quite come off. He knows it and so do I.

He says, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Docker Lonergan. He’s been teaching me karate.”

“So that’s where you’ve been. Picnics by the river—you’ve been lying to me. Day after day. You and Cassie.”

“I’m not lying when I say I won’t play hockey.”

“It’s the only sport in town!”

“Running, weight lifting, and karate—that’s what I’m doing this winter.” So I’ll be faster, stronger, tougher; that’s what I’m really saying. He’s smart enough to catch on.

“All these years I’ve paid for your hockey. I’m not paying for karate, kid.” He smiles, pleased with that last sentence.

“I don’t need your money. Della Barnes is paying me for yard work, and Rolf Langille’s hired me to do some furniture refinishing.”

“More lies,” he says.

His eyes have gone empty. He straightens. He’s still three inches taller than me. He walks toward me, slowly. I can’t help it—I flinch.

He looks smug. Reaching out, he takes the collar of my T-shirt in his fist and tightens it around my neck.

No one should ask you to run a second marathon right after you ran the first one.

I seize his wrist, twist it hard enough to wrench his arm, knee him in the gut, then throw my weight at him. Let go, and watch him crash into a chair.

No enjoyment this time. Only shame, because it was so easy.

I say hoarsely, “Next time you lay a finger on Cassie or me, we’re out of here. Straight to the cops.”

Finally, I mean it.

I can’t bear to be in the same room with him. I go upstairs, strip off my clothes, and stand under the shower for a long time, trying to wash it all away.

12.6 [“the end is the beginning ...” Japanese koan composed by Brickson MacAvoy]

A LESSON’S scheduled with Docker at four forty-five. I walk into the dojo in my bare feet; wincing, I bow at the old guy. Should have bowed at Floyd when he was tossing those logs on the grass. Never thought of it.

Reflected in the mirrors, Docker walks into the room. His eyes narrow. “What’s up?” he says.

“Can I sit down?”

“Looks like you should be lying down.”