She bounces to the rhythm. Then she slides down and starts to dance, waving her arms as wildly as the people in the crowd, stamping her shoes with her feet inside, and the whole time she’s giggling. We’ve brought our Rolf-and-Marigold selves home with us, I suddenly realize. Rolf, who praised my work; Marigold, who always made sure there was a clean towel for me on the bathroom counter, and who kissed Cassie good night. We were ourselves there. Normal. Carefree.

I crank the volume up several notches and begin clapping to the beat, laughing at Cassie who’s laughing at me.

“What’s going on here?”

Cassie freezes, her arms over her head. My palms connect— clap!—before I can stop them. AC/DC keeps bellowing out the lyrics and the fans scream their heads off.

Automatically I move the cursor to the exit button. Silence rings in my ears.

Floyd marches across the room, brushing past Cassie and nearly knocking her off her feet. Her arms jerk down like she’s a puppet.

I stand up. He cracks me across the face, flinging me sideways.

All I can see is Cassie’s face, frozen in terror. Not a trace of laughter left.

Anger explodes like a grenade in my chest. I rush him, plant my hand on his shirt and shove him backward. “Can’t you even wait until she’s out of the room? Cassie, go upstairs—right now!”

She starts for the door, trips over the bowl of popcorn, and falls down. Her elbow thuds against the leg of the desk. “Run, Cassie!”

Then I’m on to him, jabbing my fists anywhere I can find an opening. “I hate your guts—I hate your goddamn guts!”

Cassie scurries through the door.

Floyd’s fist connects with my ear. But I don’t go down. No sir. I’m flailing at him—fists, toes, knees, elbows—and they’re connecting too. “What do you care about her? You only care about yourself, you sonofabitch.”

His face, astounded, when I punch him in the ribs.

I kick his ankle. The bowl of popcorn goes flying, clanging across the floor. I punch out again, wanting to scare the crap out of him the same way he scares Cassie, my heart pounding in triumph when I land another one straight to his gut. His muscles softer than I expected. My knuckles sink in.

He snarls like a wild animal, his face convulsed. Then he comes at me, faster than I can see, too fast for me to duck. Fists to my jaw, my cheek, my eye. I’m backing up, panicked, then I hit the wall, a picture frame cutting into my shoulder. His Salesman of the Year award.