Billy tousled Ivor’s dark curls. “You all right, son?” Ivor pulled away, wearing a glare that matched his sister’s. “What’s wrong with you?” Billy asked.
“Nothing,” Ivor muttered. His face seemed to get rounder by the day. He was going to end up every bit as big as Billy if they weren’t careful.
Ivor’s scowl remained, as did the hurt in his eyes. Billy, full of yet another plan, moved to the back door. “I’m going to do my few laps of the yard. Why don’t you keep me company, Ivor?”
“No way.”
“A bit of exercise will do us both good. I’ve got my—” He stopped himself from saying diet. “My campaign, and you’ve got the walkathon coming up.”
“I hate exercise.”
“It’s just a few rounds of the yard, you’ll enjoy it, trust me,” Billy said.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“How about we do one lap and then you can see how you feel?”
“I said no, I don’t want to.”
“One lap isn’t going to kill you.” Billy cringed at his choice of words.
“No, leave me alone.” Ivor rushed from the kitchen and up the hall, leaving Billy standing at the back door, dragging his hand down his face. He was trying to do some good. Why was his own family making it so hard?
*
Billy left the factory at lunchtime, feeling ever more deflated. He had hoped Tony would have called him up to his office by now, to say he’d spoken with his board members and they’d decided to match donations. Maybe silence was Tony’s answer. Billy had, at least, rescued two damaged dolls. He eased them into the glove compartment, to add to the growing collection of seconds he’d hidden in his garage. Despite Bald Art’s threats, Billy had continued to bring home the doomed seconds, liking to feel he had power over their fates. That he was saving them.
He placed the soldier with the missing chin strap inside the cup holder, facing him. His stomach sounded its empty noises. He had felt starved within an hour of drinking the strawberry shake that morning and was one of the first to arrive at the canteen for lunch, while the peal of the bell hung in the air. Even after he’d finished the green salad and minestrone soup, he still felt dissatisfied. He wasn’t just suffering the physical pain of hunger, either. There was something more. He felt what he could only describe as a grief for food, a keen sense of loss. For as far back as he could remember, food had been his one, unfailing constant.
He hoped the health shop could sort him. He needed something to kill appetite, burn fat, and build muscle. He had thought to stop into the chemist’s and see if Tricia could ask the pharmacist to recommend some pills or potions, but she’d remained cool toward him ever since he’d announced his public diet and the march. She wouldn’t be pleased to see him arrive at her work, making noise about his needs in that regard. The pharmacist’s expertise and family-and-friends discount weren’t worth her wrath.
*
As soon as Billy entered the health shop, a young sales lad with spiked, peroxide hair pounced. “Can I help you?”
“I’m all right, thanks.” Billy wasn’t in the mood to explain himself. He needed to be back at work in fifteen minutes and wanted to get in and out. He scanned the shelves and the thousands of products on display. The rushed, frantic feeling worsened, as though he were on a TV game show and playing against the clock—his time running out fast.
The stuffy air and narrow aisles pressed on him. He took short breaths and hitched his shoulders, drawing himself in. A giant in the small space, he allowed himself only tiny movements, paranoid that a full breath or the wrong move would knock items off the crowded shelves and bring everything down around him. His stomach felt as though it were head-butting him. He needed to eat. To eat something substantial. Something that would keep the mouths in his stomach quiet.
He turned back to the lad. “Actually…”
The lad talked him through several products, swearing by the performance powder for killing appetite, burning fat, igniting energy, and building muscle. “Hey presto.”
Billy chewed harder on a chocolate-flavored protein bar. This lad must be some optimist, to look from a can of powder to him and sing out, Hey presto. The breakfast shake had left him feeling famished within a couple of hours. What if it was the same with this “fuel”? He’d never survive. The youth waxed on, claiming he drank the concoction himself. He looked and sounded earnest enough. He also looked lean and strong and muscled.
Billy clapped his hands to his stomach. “I’m not sure there’s any shake can satisfy this.”
“How much weight are you planning to lose?”
“Two hundred pounds.”
The lad’s bleached head jerked backward. “Whoa, that’s a lot.”