“‘If things work out.’” Lew blew a short breath through his nose, his version of a derisive snort, which said more than a dramatic monologue would have and all of it based upon the same subject. “How’re you intending to get there, then? On that thing outside?” By which he meant the bike. “Because you won’t be getting your car keys back from me, nor your driving licence. So don’t start thinking a job’ll make a difference.”

“I’m not asking for my keys back, am I?” Cadan said. “I’m not asking for my licence. I’ll walk. Or I’ll ride the bike if I have to. I don’t care what I look like. I rode it there today, didn’t I?”

That breath again. Cadan wished his father would just say what he was thinking instead of always telegraphing it through facial expressions and not-so-subtle sounds. If Lew Angarrack just came out and declared, You’re a loser, lad, Cadan would at least have something to row with him about: failures as son set against a different sort of failures as father. But Lew always took the indirect route, and this was one that generally used the vehicle of silence, heavy breathing, and-in a pinch-outright comparisons of Cadan and his sister. She was the sainted Madlyn, of course, a world-class surfer, headed for the top. Until recently, that is.

Cadan felt bad for his sister and what had happened to her, but a small, nasty part of him crowed in joy. For such a small girl, she’d been casting a large shadow for far too many years. He said, “So that’s it, then? No, ‘Good job of it, Cade,’ or ‘Congratulations,’ or even ‘Well, you’ve surprised me for once.’ I find a job-and it’s going to pay good money, by the way-but that’s sod all to you because…what? It’s not good enough? It’s got nothing to do with surfing? It’s-”