We watch Akuji. She’s hauled out her fighting sticks and she’s practicing her moves, fluidly, faultlessly. A warrior-dancer. I don’t see how anyone stands a chance against her. We sit like this a long time, not speaking.

My hand on Malik’s.

His under mine.

Malik makes no move to shift away, nor does he take my hand in his. I feel the moment requires me to say something profound. But the words I find are banal:

“So, uh…you’re from Sol’s London.”

Pins and needles spike and burn in my hand. I feel the sweat on his skin, on mine, the heat between us. Skin-on-skin. The strangeness is dizzying.

“Yup,” he says. “I’m from London.”

“Whereabouts?”

“The wrong side of the tracks. Didn’t go to some fancy school, or own a pony.”

“A pony?”

“You ride. You’re good at it. I saw the trophies.”

“You do that a lot? Snoop around girls’ rooms?”

“Not so much. And you let me in, remember?”

“I don’t own a pony. I muck out a stable outside the city, that’s all.”

“Either way,” he says. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” He coughs again. My hand throbs. I swear I can feel the blood beating under his skin.

“Maybe I’ll take you there, one day,” I blurt.

He looks at me. His eyes are dark as gunpowder.

“Well,” he says. “Maybe I’ll let you.”

Then he moves his hand from under mine and runs it over his jawbone.

Damn it.

“So…wrong side of the tracks,” I say, trying to salvage the connection, pulling my hand back to my side. It feels like a dead weight.

“Life was good and bad,” Malik says. He glances at me, glances away.

“Well, you can have mine,” I say, curling my hair behind my ear.

“You don’t like your life?”

“You haven’t met my stepdad. His name’s Dave.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Are you serious? I mean, c’mon. He wears corduroy, for chrissakes.”

Malik laughs and I make a mental note to make that happen again.

“And then there’s my other stepdad…Gad. He’s a hippie. Not your common-garden-type either. Top of the range. A nudist.”

Malik pauses, then softly asks, “But does he love you?”

“Gad? Well, yeah. I mean…I suppose so, but—”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

Malik looks at me and the humour snuffs out in his eyes and his smile fades. And the whole feeling of the conversation wheels from light to dark.

“My father’s dead,” Malik says. “I watched him die. I watched them both die.”

It stuns me.

And I think: I’m an idiot.

Malik rolls his neck. I hear the bones click.

“Malik, I…I didn’t—”

“You wanna know how?” he says.

“Only if—”