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silviculture. With no immediate profession and little income from part-time forestry jobs, he decided to live on Quadra in the old farmhouse that he fixed up for himself. And soon after, for himself and Linda. Zeke Pete was his best man, even if, as Zeke liked to joke, half of Jason’s blood was that thin pallid stuff—“Too many white blood cells there, Jason”—one of Zeke’s beloved lines. Zeke was one of the Cape Mudge Band’s chief negotiators trying to move toward settlement, hoping to transform the reserve into the tribal land it had once been. Now Jason added, “But it’ll help Zeke put more pressure on.”
    The barrier lowered. The row of cars beside theirs rolled off the ferry. A minute later car brake lights in their lane went red, Jason started the Corolla, and in five seconds they too were driving off. They took 9th Avenue up to Dogwood, turned left, and headed up the hill to the rink. Jason pulled across the oncoming lane into a parking lot. A perfect summer day, the air clean as rainwater. Tim stared at the mountains across on the mainland, crests of snow above brown and green layers, a child’s icing colors, as they rose hard-edged against any encroachment on BC’s interior.
    The façade of Strathcona Gardens, the sports complex, featured two green pipes about a meter in diameter: water slides for the indoor swimming pools. The larger of the two ice rinks had once been the venue for the Junior Women’s Hockey World Finals, its ice of professional quality. When Shane had begun figure skating, he’d been one of only two boys who’d taken lessons. Of course they’d both been teased, Queers! Girly-boys! Faggots! The other boy had dropped out. One day, before that first triple axel, three guys attacked him after practice but by then Shane had grown so powerful he’d beaten their faces in. After the first triple axel the thunderous applause was a warning to anybody who’d ever think about challenging Shane again. Outside the rink, anyway.
    They pushed open the big glass door, glanced through more glass at men and women swimming laps, and carried on past the information desk: “Hi Coopers!” This from Kay, the cheery large young woman. Tim reckoned she knew him and his father in their own right, but Shane’s fame reflected off anyone in his family. They pushed open the door, felt the icy blast, walked past the big rink over to the smaller one. No Shane.
    The Zamboni made its cleaning rounds, growling softly as it dragged the conditioner. Driving the Zamboni was the legendary T. Shorty Barlow—as Shorty called himself. He was a tall skinny man, maybe late thirties, maybe early fifties. Standing between tank and conditioner, he called out, “Heya Timeee!” and brought the Zamboni over to the rim of the rink by Tim and Jason.
    â€œHeya, Shorteee!” yelled Tim. The only person outside the family he accepted calling him Timmy.
    â€œGood to see ya.” T. Shorty’s blue eyes blinked, exaggerating the crow’s feet that stretched to his ears. He might be grinning except under his walrus mustache it was hard to say. “Gonna look good on the team again, kiddo?”
    Tim said, “Gonna try.”
    â€œHey, can you believe this new machine I’ve got? Electric, like the Montreal Canadiens have. Plug it in overnight and you’re home free.”
    â€œNice, Shorty” Jason said. “Glad to see you. Shane around?”
    â€œYeah, he was out here. He’s with Osborne. How’s Derek?”
    â€œThe same. Just going over to see him.”
    â€œDamn effin’ dreadful thing.” Shorty pointed to the office. “Shane’s in there.”
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    The office door stood ajar. Tim heard heightened whispers. Jason knocked. Silence, then the door opened wide.
    Shane said, “Hi Dad, hi Tim.” As tall as his father and younger brother, short brown