He blinks. “I am scared.”

“Then why don’t you holler when I twist your arm? And why haven’t you told Tully?”

“Not my style.”

What’s style got to do with it? I fling the ladder up against the house and go at the last of the shingles as if my life depends on it. Doesn’t he understand that’s why I have to keep at him— because he won’t give in?

Because he never cries.

*

WHEN I head indoors to take a leak, Glenn’s balanced on a stepladder, painting the top shingles on the front of the house. Tully’s painting the bottom ones. The paint is a cheerful shade of yellow. Sitting in the grass, weaving a crown of dandelions for Rover, Cassie is singing to herself how she’s a small person who’s somebody …

Glenn. Igor. Tully. Cassie. Floyd. It’s a wonder I can climb the back step, I feel so heavy.

Cassie never sings at home.

I gotta stick closer to her. Shield her from seeing Floyd beat on me.

Six months ago. I’ve just finished shoveling the snow away from the garage doors, while Cassie’s been building a Rover-sized snow fort. We’re both hungry. Indoors, as I beat eggs with the electric hand mixer, she looks for canned mushrooms in the pantry.

Floyd marches into the kitchen. “I told you not to put salt on the steps!”

“But the ice—“

His ring catches me on the ear. The beaters spray eggs over the canisters and the counter. Then it’s a fist to the gut.

Cassie is trapped in the pantry, watching me get sucker-punched.

Although it wasn’t much of a set-to by Floyd’s standards, it was enough to start her nightscares. A couple of days later, I taught her the go-upstairs command.

I have to protect her. Try and make up for Floyd’s meanness and Opal’s indifference. What else did Horton say? Something about not letting his small persons drown …?

How I’m going to manage all this I don’t know.

I hardly say a word at lunch, pea soup with grilled cheese sandwiches. Cassie chatters away like a normal kid would, I guess. Rolf says he plans on working tomorrow, Sunday, even though his old dad will be banging on the lid of his coffin.

Marigold brings out a plate of chocolate chip cookies and puts them right in front of me. At Happy Whale, when I was little, Kendra used to bake cookies that were loaded with chocolate, moist and chewy. Memories of Kendra ... one more layer of heaviness.

“No thanks,” I say, and push back from the table.