WE GO home, where Cassie colors four red stick figures with huge hands and feet, brows like V’s, then scrubs them out with her black crayon, the one that’s worn to a stub.

Even if I was Brian Colpitts—or Docker Lonergan—I couldn’t have dealt with four guys at once. Let’s face it, the only guys I can deal with are Lorne-sized.

By the time I’ve finished the dishes, Cassie is upstairs, Opal’s out, and Floyd’s upset because boxing has been preempted by a softball championship. Softball and Floyd in the same sentence? He drops the remote on the table when he sees me in the doorway, and crosses the room.

His eyes bore into my skull. We stand like this for what feels like half an hour. The worst part, always, is the waiting.

He buries his fist in my hair. I throw my head back to prevent instant baldness. Bad move, the throat being one of the most vulnerable parts of the human anatomy. One thing I’ll grant you, Floyd—you’ve never kicked me in THE most vulnerable part.

He says, real soft, “A week ago, you attacked me, kiddo— did you think I’d forgotten? Don’t ever do it again.”

“I won’t,” I croak.

He lifts me by the hair until I’m standing on my tiptoes. Until tears spurt from my eyes. His smile satisfied, he nods once or twice, then lets go so suddenly I nearly fall over.

There’s fifty percent decent days, and there’s five percent decent days.

*

WEDNESDAY MORNING and I’m standing at the bathroom sink in front of the mirror. My face is varying shades of yellow, which is only fitting for the biggest coward in five counties.

You know how the Mafia wires chunks of cement to the ankles of their victims before they toss them in the canal? That’s how I feel when Floyd gets in my face, as though I’m hung with cement. It’s how I feel with Snyder too.

No cement on Docker’s feet and that’s not because they were bare.

The only thing you have to fear is fear itself. Right on.

I didn’t call Docker last night to cancel our date at the dojo.

It’s like his feet know where they’re standing and they’ve earned the right to stand there, and I’m talking garbage. It’s Docker’s job to haul the garbage away. When it comes to mine— all the crap I’ve accumulated since Floyd started laying into me— good luck is all I can say.

Later, when Opal wanders downstairs in search of caffeine, I say, “I’m leaving Cassie with you at four thirty. I’ll only be gone an hour or so.”

Instantly, she’s wide awake. “I have work to do.”