Yeah, and then what would happen? Assuming they believed me—big assumption—we'd be caught up in the system. They'd take Cassie away, put her in a foster home. I'd go somewhere else, because who'd want a teenager with a rep as a bully?

Cassie, living with strangers? She might hate it and I wouldn't be there to run interference. I've heard horror stories about foster homes. Maybe I wouldn't even be allowed to visit her.

If they didn't believe us—if they believed the Salesman-of-the-Year's version—there's risk and then there's pounding nails in your own coffin.

Tell Marigold and Rolf.

They'd head for the authorities, I know they would.

Stay, keep it a secret, and make sure Floyd never gets the chance to hit her again.

Cassie turned four in June. She can leave home when she's sixteen. Sixteen years minus four years equals twelve years equals infinity.

Infinity. Heavier than Everest. Dryer than the Gobi.

*

I DON’T go for my morning run.

Cassie has bruises on her knees and another one on her back. I won’t take her to Marigold’s. I don’t want to go near the dojo. And what’s the point of mowing Della’s lawn? The savings account isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.

I won’t even be able to get a proper job when I turn sixteen. Tim Hortons won’t let me keep Cassie behind the counter while I work my shift, and I can’t dump her at one of the tables for eight hours. Cassie behind the cash register at Sobeys or Shoppers? I don’t think so.

I’m stuck. No way out.

We watch TV all morning. Floyd threw out the puzzle; the card table is folded against the wall.

I was planning on asking Docker for bigger weights today. I’d better leave a message on his machine. Tell him I’m quitting. Let’s face it, I’ll never dare use karate against Floyd. He’d grind me into hamburger, and then where would Cassie be?

Three times I pick up the phone.

Three times I put it down again.

Docker Lonergan’s been decent to me. I’m not sure why, but that’s not the point. Am I going to do my coward-gig and leave a message on an answering machine that I’m quitting? Or will I— respecting others—tell him face-to-face?

I’d rather stack ten woodpiles.

Either way, he’ll be royally pissed. Quickly I look up his home number and punch the digits. One ring, two—me in a funk in case he answers. Finally the message clicks on, then the beep.

“Docker,” I say, “I’m not coming to the dojo anymore. Sorry. Thanks. Oh. It’s Brick.” Then I push End, my heart banging away as if I just ran uphill full speed.