After I leave home, no one will kiss her. All of a sudden, the reality of Cassie here without me sinks in. No one to read to her or cook chicken fingers. No one to take her places on the ATV and choose the library books she likes. The thought of her alone and lonely in this crappy old house hurts me deeper than my sore ribs.

But leaving here when I’m sixteen—it’s nonnegotiable.

We’ve got months, we’ll figure something out.

I lie still, waiting for the Advil to kick in. How about you speed-read the following boring description of a boring guy’s boring room. Rust bedspread, single bed, pine floor. One window crowded with branches, leaves on in summer, leaves off in winter. A small closet with clothes neatly hung in a row; bureau with tidy drawers; wooden chair that’s too small for me; digital clock with the usual red numbers that jump from minute to minute. Old-fashioned clocks go around in circles that represent continuity, also known as the endless—pointless?—Cycle of Life. The Advil must be working. I hear myself being profound.

No desk, no bookshelves, library books on top of the bureau beside the boom box. No photos, no posters of rock stars, no Playboy under the pillow. Take no hostages, leave no clues. My bedroom has exactly one secret, the stash of bills under the mattress, which is not the hiding place of a profound thinker.

I’m drifting off to sleep. If I believed in God instead of Floyd, I’d say thank you.

4.3 [pay dirt]

SUMMARY OF the next three days: Technicolor bruises from forehead to shin; lip that scabs over, bleeds when I eat, scabs over; headache that finally goes away on Thursday.

I don’t want to leave the property looking like an amateur oil painting and, besides, it rains for two solid days. So Cassie and I overdose on TV, which means I sit through Treehouse, The Backyardigans, Imagination Movers, and Sesame Street, listening to her give Rover a running commentary on the action.

The TV is a sixty-inch flat screen HD, nothing but the best for Floyd.

*

I KISS Cassie good night on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I sneak a peak at her on Wednesday night before closing her door. She’s smiling to herself like she’s happy, and if that’s all it takes, I guess I can manage one measly kiss per day.

The good news? Floyd is working on a jigsaw puzzle. Nope, you’re not losing it. Jigsaw puzzle is what I said.

The guitar is for when he’s relaxed. To get relaxed, he does jigsaws, spreading the pieces on an old card table. Difficult jigsaws with over one thousand pieces that he orders online, some of them circular or oval, some made of wood. I’m all in favor of him lowering his stress level.