“You look like a scarecrow,” I said.
Leo looked at me, and for the first time in fourteen years, I saw the roof-jumping, crab-trap-landing, beautiful disaster of a brother I’d loved before I learned to lock things away. o 39-brother where art thou
We sat in silence for a long moment. Then Leo reached into his vest and pulled out a small, crumpled photograph. It was the two of us, ages eight and six, standing in front of the bait shop. Leo had a plastic sword. I had a fishing net. We were both missing front teeth and laughing at something off-camera—probably our mother, making a face. “You look like a scarecrow,” I said
“I missed the funeral,” he said. “Dad’s. I was in a yurt in Montana, trying to communicate with mushrooms. When I came out, three months had passed. Three months, Jonah. Like water through a sieve.” Then Leo reached into his vest and pulled
“The car’s out front,” I said. “It’s sensible. It has working seatbelts and a cup holder.”
That was fourteen years ago.
I laughed. It came out strange and rusty, like a door opening for the first time in a decade.