“I’m not Cassie. I don’t need you keeping an eye on me.” Then I’m off—form lousy, breath choppy, gravel the only thing that’s flying.

8.4 [Hope is the thing with feathers—that perches in the soul ... Emily Dickinson. American poet, 1830–86. I’m showing off.]

I MAKE Cassie a late breakfast. I’m not hungry. Do the weights, increasing the reps. Practice stances, blocks, punches, and kicks. Focus. Focus. Focus. Stare at the five principles until I can say them backward and upside down. Shower. Clean the bathroom. Take Cassie to town.

We buy a box of Smarties at Sobeys. At the bakery, we’re in luck because they just took a tray of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. I ask the lady behind the counter if I can buy a dozen and explain what we want to do. Once she’s spread the cookies on wax paper for us, I tip out the Smarties and let Cassie choose the colors she wants. Then we press three Smarties into each of the soft, warm cookies. I use red, yellow, and green on mine, traffic-light colors, just like I used to with Kendra. Cassie goes for purple, blue, and orange. After we go outside, we each eat one, the chocolate melting in our mouths.

While Cassie’s leafing through picture books at the library, I find a book about the treasures of Afghanistan from the time of the Silk Road, which is a road that stretched all the way from China to Babylon 2000 years ago. Think about it. No ATVs.

Near the front of the book, there’s a photo of a statue of the Buddha, the clay a warm, soft brown, his robe in long curves. He has this half-smile, like he knows something I don’t.

There’s also a photo of a thin gold chain that went around a princess’s ankle.

Not much point in falling in love with Tully Langille’s ankles, knees, or elbows.

*

FLOYD BRINGS Opal flowers that night, a big bunch of red roses wrapped in cellophane. She sniffs them and kisses him, rubbing up against him. Then she puts the roses in a crystal vase on the coffee table in the living room and they go upstairs.

Is Opal in love with Floyd? Worse—is Floyd in love with Opal? If that’s love, it’s all yours.

*

BY NOW, Cassie’s used to me running in the mornings after Floyd leaves for work, so she doesn’t fuss. I haven’t told Docker I run every day except Sunday—my secret. The way it makes me feel— like there’s hope, like there’s something I can do right—is my secret too.

When I poke the backs of my calves, they’re tight. Muscles. I have muscles.