“Thaddeus is six feet under,” Opal says, “which is the best place for him as far as I’m concerned, I don’t care if he was your father—and I wish you’d quit acting as though he could walk in >the door any minute.”

“I told you to be quiet!”

“It’s funny,” she says, head to one side as she gazes at me, “I never realized how much you take after your grandfather, Brick.”

“He always looked like my father,” Floyd says.

“Is that why you hit me?” I blurt.

Two strides and he’s snapped his hand around my wrist like a manacle. “I discipline you to make something of you—you’re a poor excuse for a son.”

My fingers tighten around the handle. What would happen if I let fly with it, hot dogs in his hair, grease sliding down his cheeks?

As if he can read my mind, Floyd says softly, “Don’t get too smart. Haircut or not, I can still slap you around.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And don’t get lippy.” He tugs me closer. He needs a shave. “Where did you get the money to pay the barber?”

“Opal gave me money for sneakers. They were on sale.”

“Give her the change. All of it. From now on, you’ll account for every penny you spend.”

I’m sick of his games. His sick games.

Opal says edgily, “It’s Sunday, Floyd. Give it a rest.”

He lets go of my arm and twists my earlobe. “Don’t you forget who’s boss.”

Him and Thaddeus. Two for the price of one.

7.1 [42 km/hr]

LIKE A man obsessed, Floyd works all Sunday afternoon and into the evening on one of the new jigsaws (van Gogh’s Pink Peach Trees); this puts him in a good mood. Still, the Hummer starting up on Monday morning is the best sound in the world. I’m actually looking forward to my run. Opal’s home, so I don’t have to worry about Cassie.

In the living room, the peach trees are already dismantled, and another box is sitting on the card table. Monet’s Waterlilies. I wouldn’t mind working on that myself. Weird.

I start out slow, crossing the bridge, taking the hill at a jog. I feel lighter without all that hair. On the level I speed up, breathing easy, landing on the balls of my feet, arms and ankles loose. Toe, heel, toe, heel, smooth strides that gobble up the distance. For the first time in my life, I’ve found something that fits.

Although our school doesn’t do much in the way of track and field, when I move to Halifax they’ll have proper coaches and teams. In the meantime, the library would have books on running.

Is it speed I’m after? Or endurance? The endurance to keep running and running and running ... just me and the dirt under my feet.