Victor’s hand shivered as he grabbed the cold metal doorknob. Their family cabin, nestled in the woods off the Oregon coast, half shrouded in fog, once a light brown, was now a dark maple. So much changed and, yet no matter what Mom’s husband, Doug, said, it was his idea to renovate. Shouting, laughing, gunshots, the shattering of glass—all the sounds of a normal Hasten family gathering. Victor listened for a hint of Roy’s voice in the clamor. No car in the driveway, but maybe his brother had caught a ride. Roy had to show up. He couldn’t miss his own birthday. 

        Inside the cabin, polished laminate replaced the wooden flooring. The wood had been old and riddled with scratches, just like walls and doors, but they weren’t just scratches, they were stories. Like the time, Roy and Victor carved their names in the corner, only legible to them. Or the time they dragged their bed frames into the living room to make a fortress, because pillows just weren’t cutting it. Dad was impressed. Then there were the marks from when Ellen snuck her boyfriend in late and spooked Scout and like any good guard dog, she charged, barked, and jumped. The intricate web of scratches on the floors, evidence of that. 

        The floors had been replaced. The couches were now an expensive leather, the shelves filled with a colorful display of blown glass, the walls held abstract paintings of who knows what, the fireplace looked electric, and the ceiling now dangled a modern looking chandelier. Gone were the family inherited paintings. Gone were the random assortments of collected seashells resting on the windows. Gone was the vintage pinball machine. Roy had never been able to beat Dad’s high score. How many hours had he logged on that machine? Apparently, not enough. Before, the living room seemed like a mashup of different things, complete chaos really. Then again, didn’t chaos have a certain charm?

        The unfamiliar faces of Doug’s friends and family rose to greet Victor. They hugged, slapped his back, gave him a handshake, a kiss on the cheek, a fist bump, and sucked him into the whirlwind of their voices: we’re all so proud of you. Should I get your autograph now? Congratulations! I’ve read your article multiple times. You’ve got to go see your mother. She’s been waiting. Where’s the birthday boy? How’s Roy doing? Haven’t heard from him? He alright? I’m worried about him. Don’t you know where he is?

        Victor retreated into the kitchen. Ellen stood over the array of food covering every inch of the counter space. Scout lay in the corner, her muzzle gray. She raised her eyebrows at seeing Victor, but nothing else. Must’ve retired from the whole guard dog gig. Gray light seeped in from the windows over the perfectly polished kitchen floors. This was the first time both families would do something together and if it didn’t go well there would never be a second. At least that’s what Mom said. 

        “Can you believe her.” Ellen said, biting her lip and tapping her fingers on the counter.

        “Ma really outdid herself.”

        “How are you?”

        “Never better.” Victor peaked out the back window. No Roy. Only Uncle Phil shooting cans off the deck. Nothing new there. 

        “I’m doing well, thanks for asking,” Ellen said.

        Victor rolled his eyes. “I thought we could skip the cliches. Yes, it’s been a long time. Yes, I saw your family vacation pictures. Yes, I haven’t changed a bit.”

        She smiled. “You definitely haven’t.” Ellen wasn’t really like the rest of the family, which is probably why her life wasn’t a complete mess. A loving husband with an even more lovable baby all bundled in a cookie cutter house in the suburbs. Some might call that boring. But you didn’t worry about people like Ellen.

        “So, did you give Roy a ride?” Victor said.

        A gunshot rang from outside and Ellen jumped, her head darting back. 

        “It’s just Uncle Phil,” Victor said. 

        She took a deep breath and looked back at Victor. “I thought Roy would drive up with you.”

        “I offered, but he didn’t answer.”

        “When was the last time you heard from him?”

        “I don’t know.” Three months and two weeks. Victor pulled out a cigarette.

        “You’re not serious?” Ellen said eyeing the cigarette. 

        “Nope.” Victor put the it between his lips and took out a lighter. 

        “You only smoke when you’re worried.”

        He flicked the lighter drawing only sparks. “Never.” 

        Ellen walked around the kitchen island to stand beside Victor. “We don’t have to do this. It’s hard on all of us and Roy, well, you know the airplane mask analogy.”

        Victor flicked at the lighter, but still no spark. “In a plane crash people aren’t thinking about the flight attendant’s empty soliloquy.”

        “Look, if it gets bad, let’s just agree to head out. I can make an excuse.” 

        Victor snapped the lighter shut. You couldn’t blame Ellen. If he had his own little slice of paradise maybe he’d feel the same way.

        Victor held out his cigarette. “Help a man out?”

        “Sure, no problem.” She took the cigarette and threw it in the trash. 

        “Such a child."

        “You asked for help.”

        “You think you’re clever.” 

        “I am clever. That’s why I was Dad’s favorite.”

        “Is that what he told you?”

        “All the time.” 

        “Come on, we both know who Dad’s real favorite was.”

        “Of course, we do. How many times was it Dad and Roy laughing at the dinner table, while the rest of us just looked at each other clueless.”

        “They had the same sense of humor, not a good sense of humor.”

        Ellen laughed at that. 

        “If something happens with Roy, I’ll talk with him. No one knows him better than me,” Victor said. 
    “What was your guys’ stupid little motto?”

        Victor smiled. “You only think it’s stupid because we said it after we stuffed your doll house with worms when we were kids.”

        “Well Mom wasn’t amused by it either. She grounded you two for a month. What was it?”

        “Brother in arms. Brothers in all.”

        “Yeah,” She gave a soft smile too. “Stupid.”

        “Maybe.”

        “Well, if things go south, remember, we can leave.”

        Victor tucked his hands in his pockets. Talking would work. You just needed the right words. Sure, some words were used so much they didn’t mean anything. But then, there were words that could change minds, change hearts, change the world—the magic ones. As a writer you had to believe in that sort of stuff. Magic words. You had to believe in them.

        Mom barged into the kitchen, with two more bags of groceries. Looks like she didn’t change either. Surely, the party would’ve been a disaster if they only had five sides instead of seven. She wore her pink blouse, lipstick, eye shadow, the whole nine yards. She always looked nice. The good looks drew you away from things like the couple of band aids that wrapped around her fingers, the smeared mascara, and the small silver ring that hung on a chain around her neck. Dad’s ring.

        “You made it.” She set the bags down and gave Victor a hug. “You need a haircut. I’ll give you one tonight.”

        “Let’s just enjoy the weekend.”

        “What are people going to think? You don’t look the least bit professional.”

        “I mean, I’m a writer. We aren’t really known for dressing the best.”

        “What about those jackets with padded elbows?”

        “Those are college professors.”

        “Well, I don’t see why you can’t look like one of them.”

        “Ma, how are you?” Ellen came in for a hug, but Mom only reciprocated with a single arm. Her eyes stuck on a bowl.

        “What’s that?”

        “A salad.”

        “Oh.” She hurried and snatched a knife, a cutting board, and a head of lettuce. “That’s fine.” She slammed the knife down, chopping the lettuce in half.

        “Ma, I just wanted to help.”

        Mom chopped again. “How nice of you. I was going to make a salad, but it doesn’t seem like that’s needed. I mean look at this. Are those pomegranate seeds?”

        “Please, don’t do this,” Ellen said.

        “No, it’s fine.” She took the chopped lettuce and scraped it off into the trash. She went over to a plastic bucket and pried open the lid. “Okay, Victor, you’ve been seeing someone. Go on tell us about her.”

        “Nice, loving, funny, patient, a good head on her shoulders, the type of girl most guys dream of and only a couple are lucky enough to find.” 

        “So, it didn’t work out,” Ellen said.

        “Obviously,” Victor said. 

        “You know you’re the problem,” Ellen said. 

        “Of course, I do.”

        “Oh Ellen, give him a break. He’ll find someone.” Mom said. 

        The door opened and closed. Victor turned. Roy. He wanted to smile seeing his brother, who at age eight pushed Victor off the diving board when he got cold feet, who at sixteen signed Victor’s cast, “Single and desperate” in permanent marker, who at twenty-four took Victor for a long drive after his “future wife” turned out to not be interested in a first date, but seeing only Roy blue eyes dull Victor couldn’t.

        “Roy, it’s about time. Everyone was worried,” Mom said.

        “Really? I’d assumed everyone would just be talking about Vic’s article.” Roy looked at Victor. “Congrats, by the way.”

        Mom gave a couple claps. “Now that everyone’s here, let’s just try to make everything go smoothly. Show everyone a real Hasten dinner.”

        “They don’t want to see a Hasten dinner. I mean unless you want to scare them,” Roy said.

        “You’re sounding like Dad, Ma. He always ignored the facts. Most Hasten dinners always end in a fight,” Victor said.

        Mom rolled her eyes. “Victor, you start on those potatoes. Ellen, how about you go and start setting the silverware in the dining room.” They nodded. Helping Mom cook was a routine no one complained about. Ellen left the kitchen, while Victor grabbed the bag of potatoes and stationed himself at the sink.

        “What can I do, Ma?” Roy said.

        “It’s your birthday. You should enjoy yourself,” Mom said.

        “I’d enjoy helping in the kitchen.”

        “Fine. Go prepare the crabs. They need to boil.”

        Roy nodded and took the plastic bin and set it next to the big silver pot on the stove.

        “I didn’t think you heard about my article.” Victor ran a potato under the warm water and started with the peeler.

        “I’ve always got my forehead to ground. You know that.” Roy turned up the heat on the stove.

        “Forehead? You mean your ear?”

        Roy glanced at him. “It was a joke.”

        Victor grabbed another potato. The warm running water washed over, wiping away the dirt. “I just thought you’d call or something.”

        “Here, take these, Roy.” Mom said, as she shoved a pair of tongs at him.

        “A text is also completely painless,” Victor said.

        “Look, I told all my buddies at the restaurant the day I found out.” Using the tongs, Roy pulled out a crab from the bucket. It sprawled out and clawed at the empty air. 

        “So, you’ve read it?” 

        “I’ve been meaning to get to it.” He plopped the crab in the water and then dropped them in one after another. 

        “You got a lot on your mind or something?”

        Roy paused, staring at a squirming crab. “I’m murdering this happy family of crabs.” He let the crab fall in with a splash and snapped the lid on the top. He took out a hip flask from his coat and took a swig. Hadn’t he decided to lay off the hard liquor?

        The door opened again. This time, Doug. He had to squeeze himself in to fit his bulk through the door. Surprising that no one heard him coming. After giving Mom a peck on the cheek, he came and greeted Victor and Roy, using all the cliches, of course: how’s a hangin’? Long time no see. Terrible traffic, right?  Victor made conversation. Doug was a stubborn guy after all. Being silent would just make him try harder. Unfortunately, Roy was silent.

        “Your Uncle Phil is a great shot,” Doug directed at Roy.

        “Sure is.”

        Doug looked over all the food. “Your mother really worked hard on this meal, Roy. She must love you a lot.”

        Roy gave Doug a nod. “Ma, this looks great.” 

        “Your mom would probably appreciate it if you said thank you.”

        “I told Ma that it looks great.”

        “That’s fine, but it isn’t thank you.” 

        “I think Roy meant it though,” said Victor straining his voice to be heard over the running faucet. He grabbed another potato.

        Mom walked over and held Doug’s arm. “Honey, leave it alone. Lobster would have been better.”

        “Ma, this is perfect. Thank you for making this for me,” Roy said.

        “Isn’t that better? Word precision goes a long way,” Doug said.

        “I can’t believe this.” Roy massaged his eyes. 

        “Victor gets it. He’s an author.” 

        “Roy writes,” Victor said. 

        “Ah, he’s a writer, but you’re an author. There’s a difference.”

        “Well, I’d say there’s an even bigger difference between a writer and an accountant,” Victor said, “Isn’t that what you do, Doug? Seems like all numbers to me,”

        “Just stop, Victor. I don’t need you to help me,” Roy said.

        Another gunshot rang.

        “That’s it. Phil’s done enough shooting for the day,” Mom said.

        Roy looked around for something to do and finally landed on Scout. “I’m taking her out.” He left with her and slammed the door behind him.

        Victor looked down at the sink. The skins were peeled along with half the potatoes themselves. He took fistfuls of the awkward chunks and chucked them in the trash.

 

        Victor hurried down the steps from the deck, as the winter air pulled at his skin. No chance for sunshine was right. He strode to Roy, who stood at the edge of the freshly mowed grass with his flask in hand.

        “You didn’t have to follow me,” Roy said.

        “Come on, don’t tell me you forgot.” Victor grinned and raised a fist. “Brothers in arms.”

        Victor gave a soft chuckle and tapped his fist against Vic’s. “Brothers in all.”

        “I’m surprised you aren’t deep in the forest coming up with some moody sonnet.”

        “I’m hoping that Scout will take a dump on Doug’s lawn.”

        “Dad was so anal about the lawn. I guess Doug is like Dad in that way.”

        “I guess.” Roy threw back the flask and shook out the last drops.

        Scout came walking back with a tennis ball in her mouth. Roy kneeled and Scout dropped the ball in his palm. He threw the tennis ball out into the forest and Scout started back out with shaking legs.

        “I got you something.” Victor held out an envelope.

        “I don’t want it.”

        Victor slapped the envelope on Roy’s chest. “It’s not money. You’ll like it.”

        Roy opened the envelope. “What is this?”

        “I gave Shannon one of your manuscripts. She’s interested.” Roy stared at the paper. “Come on man, no more bussing tables or bad tips.”

        “I don’t know. Being a host might be my calling.”

        “Shannon’s a great agent.” 

         Scout came back and Roy leaned down, picked the ball up and tossed it back into the fog.

        “You should be happier,” Victor said.

        “You’re right. My talented little brother is letting me aboard his ship of success.”

        “Come on, man.”

        “No, I get it. My life is a little bit cliche isn’t it? People hate cliches.”

        “Just send her the full manuscript.”

        “If I wanted to publish then I would.” 

        “Look, I know you’re going through a hard time.”

        “And this will make it all better, won’t it?” 

        “It certainly won’t hurt.”

        “Why don’t you send Shannon something? You could probably dabble in fiction and write a masterpiece.”

        “Enough. Dad’s gone.”

        “Don’t.”

        “It’s been three years.”

        “You think I don’t know that.”

        “It doesn’t seem like it. You still have Mom, Ellen, and me. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

        “It was Dad, Vic.”

        “You know I loved him, but Dad wasn’t perfect. He always said that everything was going to be alright. Told us to never worry. That it was just the flu. It was cancer, Roy. He left us with no warning. Mom was going to lose the house if it wasn’t for Doug.”

        “Don’t make Doug the hero.”

        “If Dad hadn’t glossed over everything with a joke, we wouldn’t be in this whole mess. None of us knew what to do. He just kept saying everything would be alright. Then it wasn’t.”

        “He was trying to comfort us you jackass.”

        “And he did a fantastic job, didn’t he.”

        “There’s a reason I don’t call you.” Roy turned away. 

        “We aren’t finished.”

        But Roy didn’t stop. He kept walking back to the house on some path completely overflowing with the white sea of fog—Roy’s figure drowning in its waves. 

        “Roy,” Victor shouted, but the blurry white vacuum sucked in the sound. Roy’s silhouette all but gone, Victor started after him, only for a branch to catch his foot, jerking him to the ground and his face to the cold mud. He pressed himself up, spitting out the murky water and wiping away the newly formed mask. Mud would be everywhere. With blurred eyes he saw his knees and hands caked in mud. Roy’s steps echoed towards the house. Airplane masks. He kept spitting. The mud sucked his feet down. The bitter taste of dirt lingered in his mouth and the leftover grit crunched between his teeth. Scout came back, a blurry hedge of fur with jingling tags. She whined as Roy’s steps grew more distant.

        “It’s okay, girl,” Victor whispered.

 

        When Victor came back, he washed himself off in the kitchen before heading to the living room. Most of the guests had left to take all the kids to the ocean, leaving a small group of twelve, who chatted and sipped their drinks. Roy sat slumped in one of the new armchairs. Mom and Doug sat together, her head on his shoulder. 

        “Victor what happened?”

        “I tripped on a branch.” Ellen gave him a look. “It surprised me. That’s all.”

        Roy laughed. “Leave it Victor. Still as clumsy as a five-year-old.”

        “We were about to go for a tour. Join us.” Mom smiled, a pleading one. “It won’t take too long.”

        “You said you didn’t change that much.”

        “We didn’t, just a few improvements. We wanted to bring out the charm it already had,” Doug said.

        Roy threw back the last of his drink, slammed it on the coffee table, and shot up to his feet. “I can’t miss this. Let’s see all these improvements.”

        “Roy. You’re supposed to sip those.” Ellen grabbed Victor’s forearm. He didn’t need to look over to know her expression. 

        “It’s nice to see you enthusiastic about something,” Doug said.

        “Oh, I’ve never been as enthusiastic about anything before now. I can’t wait. Why are we waiting? Let’s go.” He motioned for Ellen and Victor to stand. He was practically yelling.

        “Okay, I’ll go. Just relax,” Victor said.

        Their small group of twelve went upstairs, Doug leading the way. “Let’s start with the study.”

        Roy marched out. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I was most excited to see Dad’s study.”

        Ellen leaned over and whispered in Victor’s ear, “Should one of us take him outside?”

        “He’s an adult.”

        The old bookcases were replaced with brown ones. The firepit again looked to be electric. Dad used to sit on his leather chair and read them books they barely understood. His chair was gone as well. The wooden floorboards creaked as Roy walked in.

        “Wow, this looks good, Ma.” Roy looked at Doug. “What am I saying? Thank you, Ma. Thank you so much. And thanks for the dinner. Did I already say that? I don’t know. Better safe than sorry. Who would I be if I didn’t say thank you?”

        "That’s enough, Roy,” Mom said. 

        “Just trying to be grateful.”

        “Don’t worry about him,” Doug said.

        Roy stepped up and motioned to the bookshelves. “Now let’s be precise Doug. You’ve read all of these.”

        “Well, yes I have.”

        “What was this one about?” 

        “Oh, I’m still getting to that. There might be a couple in my collection that are still on my list.”

        Roy stepped up to the shelves and pulled down a book. “It’s your collection?”

        “Yes, Doug is quite the collector,” Mom chimed in. “It’s one of the things he and your father had in common.”

        “Wrong.” Roy knocked the book with his knuckles.

        “What?” Doug asked.

        “You said it was your collection. This book was Dad’s.” 

        “Roy, don’t do this,” said Mom.

        “I’m just making sure we’re using precise language.” Roy flipped open the book. “It matters.”

        “Stop acting like a child,” Ellen said.

        “No. This was Dad’s book, and he wouldn’t want this on the shelf anymore.” Roy tore out a handful of pages and tossed it to the ground. 

        “Stop it,” Doug yelled.

         “I’m just making improvements.” Roy pulled out another book. “We have to get rid of this too.” Roy threw it on the ground, the pages crinkling.

        Victor stepped forward. “Roy, please. Don’t do this.”

        He looked at Victor as he picked up another book. Then, he tossed it to him. “It was a joke.” The wooden floor creaked, as Roy left the room. 

        Doug looked at the crowd. “Sorry about that. You know how kids can be.” He forced a laugh that got a few stray chuckles from Doug’s old fraternity buddies and Mom’s sisters, Aunt Carol and Aunt Betty. 
Victor started after Roy, but Ellen grabbed Victor’s arm. “Vic. Airplane masks.” 

        “I’m sorry Ellen. It’s Roy.” He followed him.

        He found Roy back in the living room sitting beside Uncle Phil on the couch, talking in a low quiet voice.

        “Victor, you’re not going to believe what Uncle Phil told me.” Roy waved him over. “Go on Uncle Phil, tell Victor what you told me.” He took another shot.

        Uncle Phil lifted his head, adjusted his cap and sighed. “I was just telling him that his father wouldn’t love the changes either. He always liked things to be a bit random.”

        “You hear that. They messed up. No one else even talks about it.” He slammed the cup down.

        “Come on, Roy.”

        “Dad would have hated it. We all do, but Uncle Phil and I are the only ones saying something.” Roy grinned and went into the kitchen. 

        “You don’t mind if I borrow this, Uncle.” The sound of a zipper came from the kitchen. After a pause, a click. Then a snap. The wooden floors creaked, as Roy took slow steady steps back. He turned the corner. Victor’s stomach dropped.

        “You’re drunk.”

        “I’m just going to make some improvements.” Roy held Uncle Phil’s rifle.

        Uncle Phil stood up. “Roy, put that down.”

        Roy aimed the gun and fired. The purple glass bowl shattered into pieces. Victor and Uncle Phil cursed, and someone screamed from upstairs. Mom. Scout started barking. 

        “Doesn’t that bring out the old charm?” 

        Doug and Mom appeared downstairs—Doug erupting in curses, Mom telling Roy how he had no clue how much that vase cost, how idiotic he must be. Scout kept barking. Their aunts and Doug’s friends ran downstairs, but Doug told them all to leave, even motioning Uncle Phil to step outside. Roy pulled back the bolt and cocked the gun.

        “Roy, stop. Do you know what you’re doing?” Doug said.

        “I know what I’m doing.” Roy held up the gun and his eyes narrowed. In a second, Doug and Victor reached out for the gun, as Mom and Ellen plugged their ears and nestled together. He shot. The yellow glass vase exploded into pieces, and everyone flinched back. Scout flared up again, almost howling. “I’m remodeling.”

        “Roy, please.” Mom’s voice strained. 

        “Look what you’re doing to your mother. To everyone.” Doug was trying not to yell this time.

        Pausing, Roy stared at the gun. Was he better than this? Roy pulled back the bolt, the empty shell tapped on the ground, and another slid in the chamber. He aimed and fired. Glass sprayed over the room. 

        “That’s it. I’m calling the police.” Doug stepped out, leaving Roy, Mom, and Victor, as Scout continued to bark. 

        Victor stepped closer to Roy, reaching his arm out for the gun. “Give me the gun.”

        “Get your own.” 

        “Don’t be an ass.” Victor’s ears rung. Everything was muffled. “You’ll hurt someone.”

        “It doesn’t matter,” Roy said, pulling the back the bolt. Another shell dropped to the floor. Another shell slid in the chamber.

        Victor grabbed the gun with both hands. He pulled, but Roy resisted, holding it tighter. “Let go of the gun, Victor, or I swear.”

         Scout barked louder. 

        “What? Am I getting in the way?” Roy ripped the gun away from Victor.

        “Dad wouldn’t want this.”

        “Roy.” It wasn’t Victor that said it. Ellen did. Her eyes red, her arms hugging herself, she stood beside Mom. But Roy didn’t notice. Ellen kept saying his name, saying it louder, stronger, but each time it lost more meaning.

        Roy aimed up at the chandelier.

        Tears streamed down Mom’s cheeks. She crumpled against the wall, holding Dad’s ring on her neck, saying something, but Victor couldn’t hear. The ringing in his ears grew, almost sharpening with Mom crying, Ellen shouting, Scout barking, and the echo from the last shot still hammering his eardrums. No one could probably hear anything.

        As Roy placed his finger on the trigger, Victor punched him and grabbed the gun. Roy fell back. Victor pulled out the magazine, ripped back the bolt, sending the bullet out of the chamber, and then dropped it all on the couch. All the air from Victor’s lungs had fled him. No words came to mind. Scout stopped barking. Silence. Roy pressed himself up, holding his nose. The glass crunched beneath him. Victor’s hand shook. One squeeze to make a fist and sharp pain flared through his ring finger. Broken.

        Victor rubbed his hand. “Shit, Roy.”

        Roy stood up. Paused. Not a word spoken. He left, shutting the back screen door so gently that it didn’t even make a sound.

        Victor caught his breath, staring at his own reflection in the glass door. He looked like shit. Yet, he could only think of beyond his reflection. Victor joined Roy outside, on the deck, the overhead streams of blurry lights glowing above them. The ocean of fog surrounding them like they were on the deck of some ship. 

        “I’m sorry, Vic.” Roy said.

        Victor stared at Roy’s back, his pale white nape sticking over his shirt collar. All those stories about loss, about love. They never quite lined up with your experience. Using them as a scaffolding of sorts, or some type of emotional guidebook would be cutting off something, something that made it entirely your own. Maybe that’s why words always fell short.

        “Sorry about the nose.” Victor leaned against the wooden beam. “You know, we all miss Dad.”

        “Sure.” Roy held his sleeve against his nose and stared out into fog, his eyes as blank and stagnant as the fog’s white void. “I don’t know. You have your articles, Mom has Doug, and Ellen has her family.”

        “Just send your manuscript.”

        A couple of moths fluttered by one of the lightbulbs, blindly bumping into it. One of the lightbulbs started to flicker. “Even if it was a bestseller, it wouldn’t matter.” 

        “Because of Dad.” The lightbulb buzzed and then blinked out.

        “Yeah. Because of Dad.” The voices from the front yard grew quiet, as cars drove away and crunched along the gravel. “He was the whole reason I started writing in the first place. Sitting on his lap in front of the fire, he’d tell us story after story.”

        “You still could make him proud.”

        “He’s not here anymore, Victor. Even if he was, I just.” He glanced back at the house. Through the glass screen doors, Mom held a dustpan and broom in each hand, but she didn’t move. She froze, staring at the shards of glass around her. Ellen hurried from the kitchen, rummaging through her purse almost frantically, her phone pressed between her cheek and shoulder. Wide eyes and flustered cheeks. The whole house shivered, as she slammed door the behind her. How long until they’d see her again?

        Victor held his broken finger, as it pulsed with pain. “You know, when I found out that my article had done so well, I thought of Dad too. I wished I could hear him read it out loud.” 

        “Yeah?” Roy pulled the sleeve from his nose. It kept bleeding. “Shit.” He held his sleeve back up and hung his head down. The gravel crunched under Ellen’s car, as she drove away. “I’m sure he would have liked it.”

        “I’m still writing the articles though. Even if Dad isn’t here.”

        “Why?” 

        “There are still people I want to read to them.” 

        The winter cold nipped at Victor’s face, leaving a dull constant pain lingering on his cheeks that seemed to burn more with each passing moment. Roy probably felt something similar. Victor clenched a fist, ignoring the jab of pain from his broken finger, and raised it to Roy. 

        “Brothers?”

        Roy glanced at him—his blue eyes, so aloof. So tired. They stared at one another, as the phrase sat between them, hanging in the air. The wind blew and the light streamers shifted. Another bulb flickered. Victor looked away, his lips pressed together, shaking.

        “I just don’t know, Vic.” 

        Victor let his fist fall to his side. They stood at the edge of the deck. His words hadn’t been perfect. They never could be. Maybe they just needed to be. Was that it? The fog would continue to roll in and Victor would continue to stand by Roy. There wasn’t a word for that.