She knows and I know that he means Floyd. Docker doesn’t know. Pushing words past the pain in my jaw, I say, “That’s right, Cassie, it wasn’t the ATV’s fault. I was the one driving it. Forgot my helmet.”

Cassie jams her thumb in her mouth, a habit I thought she’d outgrown. “Don’t pay her any mind,” I add, “she’s cranky because I put a dent in the ATV. That Disney movie about the cars— she thinks our ATV should’ve been the big star, not Lightning McQueen, because our ATV is what takes us to MacTaggart’s and the library.” And when am I going to quit running off at the mouth?

My split lip is bleeding. I dab at it.

Docker gazes at me in silence. Gray hair, a nose that looks like it was broken long ago, steady brown eyes. He says quietly, “Did someone beat you up?”

If he twigs to Floyd, guess who’ll be the next corpse in the Dead Zone? Clinging to the lid of the green bin, I say desperately, “The river trail’s rough and I wasn’t watching what I was doing.”

“He did it,” Cassie says. “He’s a meanie.”

I give her a look that would stop a rutting moose dead in his tracks. “Okay, okay,” I say sulkily. “It wasn’t the ATV. Snyder McIsaac caught me down by the river. Him and his gang.”

Docker’s eyes move from me to Cassie. He says to her, no expression in his voice, “Want to watch while I dump your bin?”

Her thumb leaves her mouth. She nods.

He could at least smile at her.

After he wheels the green bin to the hoist, he climbs in the cab; hoist-plus-bin groan their way upward. Cassie watches, big-eyed, as the black maw of the truck swallows our leftovers.

The hoist lowers the bin. Docker jumps to the ground. “I’ll push the bin back up the driveway.”

“I can do it!”

He takes the handles and adjusts his pace to mine. I do my best to walk natural, but the road’s wavering and twice I have to grab the bin, blood pounding in my ears. As he lines the bin up carefully by the garage door, he says, “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Nah.”

It’s as much as I can do not to flinch when he takes me by the elbow. But he’s only steering me toward the door, supporting me so I don’t fall flat on my kisser. He says, “I want you to do something for me.”

I sit down on the step, breathing shallow, waiting for the line of trees to settle.

“On the weekend, come to the mall and visit my dojo—the place where I teach karate.”

I’d drop my jaw, except it’s too sore. “Why?”

“It would be a good discipline for you to have.”