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Fuel 6.1 is the latest release, and the best, the Nike man said.

"You can see from the charts how our refined erythrocyte design maximises oxygen-carbon dioxide exchange, nutrient absorption, and hormone capacity. You folks have probably read about all that stuff already; it was part of the 6.0 rollout," he said.

"But 6.1 also features enhanced thrombocyte function that increases fibrinogen production by as much as 50%. It lasts longer than 6.0, too. You can go up to four weeks without a new transfusion. And of course, Fuel still has the highest-quality, FDA-approved leukocytes and plasma substitutes available on the market."

The Nike man topped two metres, taller even than Dad. He had dark hair streaked blonde. His skin was so deeply tanned that Jamie could swear it glowed. The salesman's hands seemed huge, each big enough on its own to comfortably grip a basketball.

He wore an immaculate black workout singlesuit that flowed with his movements. And he had the shoes, of course. Top of the line SuperJumps, solid black, like the suit.

He made his pitch in the living room, with the aid of handouts and multimedia charts from a display that stood on its own tripod. Mum and Dad, seated on the couch, paid close attention, nodding at appropriate times, asking occasional questions, laughing at the salesman's jokes.

Scott, just turned sixteen, long-legged and lanky, slumped between them with his arms crossed. His gaze wandered as the Nike man talked. Jamie sat in the rocking chair to one side, next to the bookcase filled with Scott's track trophies and medals.

The Nike man continued: "Athletes using Fuel 6.1 have shown documented increases in metabolism, endurance, and recovery from injury. And if you purchase tonight, we'll even throw in a free home transfusion kit."

Jamie shook his head. Scott already had one of those. Jamie had set it up for him many times, usually on nights before track meets. Jamie had grown more proficient working the kit than his parents.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. The time was just after seven o'clock. If the Nike man finished his spiel in the next hour, Jamie would still be able to do some of his Advanced Lit homework.

"Wow," Dad said, smiling and nodding. "That's something, isn't it, Scott?"

"I guess," Scott said.

The Nike man gave an amused smile. "You don't sound convinced."

"I'm a sprinter. I don't care about all that endurance stuff."

"What's your forty time, Scott?"

"Four-one-five."

"Not bad. But suppose I were to tell you that Fuel 6.1 can improve your personal best by as much as a full second?"

"Yeah, right," Scott said. "Whatever."

"Regionals are only two weeks away, honey," Mum said. She was small and wiry, with closely cropped hair and an angular face. She still wore work clothes – white top, pinstriped jacket and skirt, heels. "And didn't your coach say you need to get under four seconds if you want to..."

Scott cut her off with an exasperated sigh and a roll of his eyes. An awkward silence fell.

The Nike man turned toward Jamie in the rocking chair. "How about you, Jimmy? This stuff is pretty cool, huh?"

"Uh . . . it's Jamie."

The Nike man put on a let's-be-friends smile. "Do you think you would like to try Fuel? I'll bet you'd like it."

The salesman's radiant good health made Jamie uncomfortably conscious of the paunch around his middle. "Um . . . no, thanks."

"Why not? This is quality stuff, you know."

With a sidelong glance toward his parents, Jamie said, "That's OK."