Gopher ducked his head. The chance of dodging the blow was slight, but moving at least gave him something to do. At least he hadn’t given up. Or started to cry. Not like the first few times. Smack.
He suffered through his brother’s daily abuse like a mid-level manager. Sure he’d like to be somewhere else, but it’s not like that was possible. It was more productive to sit and wonder how he got here, how it had come to this. When had it become okay for Zed to start rough-housing with him? When had their mother eased off the chidings of “be careful” and “not in the house” to a resignation that mirrored his own. Probably when she realized that an afternoon of play fighting left the two boys more manageable in the evening. Amazing how soft violence will peel back a layer of insolence. Smack.
There was the option of hitting back, but Gopher hadn’t worked that out conceptually. Right now there was a certain mathematics. Crying meant he lost. Calling “Mother” was risky; it could rouse his mother from changing his little sisters diaper, but on the chance that it didn’t it meant that the tiny slaps would double. There was simply running, but after the time he tripped and split his chin, Gopher had become weary. Standing his ground meant taking the full force of a hit, so a slight ducking would soften the blow, but not incur any frustration in his easily irked sibling.
Zed shouts “Stop moving!”
