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he’s jogging, his head slanted down, in a concentrated, purposeful way. He’s wearing a bright red tracksuit with a navy stripe snaking down the sides of the legs.
    Tyler races ecstatically ahead of him, his silly ears flying.
    The pit of Amy’s stomach heaves. She opens the window and takes a deep breath of dawn air. The first delicate swirl of birdsong rustles from the trees.
    â€œI mean . . .” Amy pushed her bike into the school shed. “It was five in the morning, for heaven’s sake. Dad never gets up before six-thirty if he can help it. Not unless a patient calls him out, and then he makes a terrific fuss.”
    â€œDon’t you need less sleep as you get older?” Ruth asked.
    â€œAnd that tracksuit. I’ve never seen it before. We buy all his clothes together, we always have done since Mum . . .”
    â€œI think it’s great.” Ruth wrenched three battered library books from her bike basket. “Lots of men when they reach forty . . . How old’s your dad?”
    â€œForty-six,” Amy said sullenly.
    â€œIt’s a good age to start taking yourself in hand. Most blokes go to seed – too many chips, too much beer . . .”
    â€œI don’t give Dad too many.”
    â€œAnd there’s yours trying to stay fit, and all you can do is grumble.”
    â€œI’m not grumbling .”
    â€œYou could’ve fooled me!”
    â€œIt’s so unlike him. And hair dye! I ask you. I like him just the way he is.”
    â€œThis lady friend.” Ruth glanced at Amy as they crunched the gravelled path leading into school. “The one you saw him with.”
    Amy growled, “What about her?”
    â€œMaybe he’s doing all this for her .”
    Ruth pulled at the heavy glass door. The smell of school gusted out at them: disinfectant from newly washed floors, chalk and sweat.
    Amy flushed. “He’d better not be!”
    â€œFace it,” Ruth persisted. “Maybe he is .”
    Amy gets home from school, wheels her bike into the garage. For a moment she thinks she’s in someone else’s. The bags of rubbish she and Dad had filled have gone, the brick walls and high ceiling have been cleaned of cobwebs, the concrete floor swept. Dad must’ve asked Dora to finish what they’d started.
    Beside the new exercise bike sits a large, unopened box.
    Amy tears at the wrapping. A black and yellow trampoline stares out from a sea of white foam. The New Rebounder:The Best Way to Fight Flab. Twenty Minutes a Day! Feel the Difference in a Week!
    Gingerly, Amy steps on it. She begins to bounce. Up! Down! Up! Down! Higher , she thinks angrily. Higher!
    Her hair escapes its knot, swirls delightedly into the air.
    From inside the house, Tyler barks.
    For a week, Amy watched Dad more closely than ever.
    The grey flecks in his hair began to tone into a new soft brown. A second tracksuit, dark green with a fierce yellow stripe, appeared in the dirty-washing basket, soaking with sweat. A new vegetable juicer sat in the kitchen.
    On Saturday morning, Dad appeared with packets of rice flakes, millet flakes, raisins, sesame, linseed and sunflower seeds.
    Amy looked up from her list. “Where did you get that parrot food?”
    Dad said casually, “A friend of mine suggested I try something different. There’s a new health-food shop in the village . . . I eat too many eggs. This makes wonderful muesli. Much better for me. For us both.”
    â€œBut I’ve made scrambled eggs every morning for as long as I can remember.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I mean.” Dad hitched up his jeans. “I’ve done fifty miles on that bike this week,” he said proudly.
    Amy refused to congratulate him.
    Dad sat at the table. “Let’s go organic this week. Tons of fruit and vegetables, nuts, beans, salad. I’m going to do a strict detox.”
    Amy flushed. “You don’t like my