Although Glenn’s half a head shorter than me, he never has the wit to act scared. But I’m surprised Igor hasn’t run for cover, seeing as how I’ve been known to fire rocks in his direction.

The leash is trailing in the dirt between me and Glenn. I don’t want to get tangled in it, so I give Igor a kick in the ribs.

The dog yelps, skitters behind Glenn, and flattens himself against his legs.

Glenn bunches his fists. “You leave my dog alone!”

Before I can duck, he lands two good ones to my chest. I move in for the kill. “Dog? That’s not a dog, it’s an overgrown weasel.”

My heels digging into the dirt, I grab his wrist, lever his arm behind his back, and pull up, nice and easy.

He’s standing on tiptoes. His teeth are gritted, but he can’t keep the sounds from escaping. He doesn’t cry, though. Never has.

Igor whines in sympathy. Then I hear a logging truck at the top of the hill, jake brakes blatting as it starts down the slope to the bridge. I kick Glenn’s feet from under him and let go of his arm. He drops to the ground, still clutching the leash. I’m halfway down our driveway before the truck roars past.

You gotta be careful with the arm-twisting routine because you can dislocate someone’s shoulder that way. I googled it.

Glenn moved here from Toronto two years ago. His father is a retired music professor who owns a bookstore on Main Street. Glenn has blond curly hair, makes top marks in school, and plays the flute. He doesn’t play hockey, football, basketball, or soccer. All of which should put him at the bottom of the social pile.

The girls are all over him. The guys like him. Even the jocks tolerate him.

None too smart putting life and fair in the same sentence.

1.5 [Brickpower]

FLOYD ARRIVES home at five thirty sharp. He brakes by the heap of birch logs and turns off the ignition of his Hummer H2 SUV, Silver Ice Metallic. He’ll keep that vehicle until it’s an antique.

I’m in the kitchen washing a saucepan. KD for supper, spirals at Cassie’s request. Floyd walks around the logs then strolls out back. I fight the temptation to go to the other window and watch him.

Five minutes later he saunters into the kitchen and leans against the doorframe, hipshot. “Why did you put the pallets there?” he says, pleasantly enough.

“So last year’s wood is nearest the cellar door?” Declarative statements can be dangerous. They don’t teach you this in grade eight English.

“I keep hoping—against all the evidence—that you’ll develop a modicum of brains and initiative. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to start by piling last year’s wood in the cellar?”

“Guess so.”

“You guess so?”