“For a moment, my eyes shift focus to the glass wall beside her and I see my reflection. There stands Dominic Smith, whose tinted specs make him look dead cool, thank you very much, although the scraggy black hair manages to spoil the effect. My hair stages more uprisings than a nineteenth-century revolutionary. I inherited it from my dad. Thanks, Dad.”

“Next I think about that night on my bed: her head pressed into my pillow, her hair spread out around her face. The memory of it makes me hard, but then I remember how it ended, with Libby seeing me with Priscilla. Impotent rage washes over me, but I'm still hard as a damn diamond. I shift my weight; that makes it worse. Libby's eyes are on mine, thankfully.”

“No more humiliation for me, thanks very much. No more swallowing my anger. Honestly, I couldn't manage another mouthful. But it was delicious. Did you make it yourself?”

“Thanks, Dad," she whispered in his ear. Then recovering her composure, she knelt before him and said, "I give thanks, my Father. May your decision be proved right and true.”

“As I stomped across the school grounds, all I could see was Cal sitting with my dad in some manly room with leather chairs and dead animals on the wall, chomping on cigars as my dad formally signed me away to him. They probably even high-fived.”

“This is how it essentially is for Bunny Junior. He loves his dad. He thinks there is no dad better, cleverer, or more capable, and he stands there beside him with a sense of pride — he's my dad — and he also, of course, stands beside him because he has nowhere else to go.”