A small American flag was stuck beside the mailbox, drooping slightly in the thick July heat.
Somewhere down the block, a mower started, sputtered, and died.
Everything looked like the kind of morning that had no right to become a memory.
Peter wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist and thought, again, of Aaron.
His little brother had loved this porch.
Aaron used to sit there in the evenings with a bottle of root beer, one ankle crossed over the other, laughing like trouble always belonged to somebody else.
He had been that kind of man.
Too trusting sometimes.
Too quick to believe that people meant what they said.
Too proud to admit when he needed help.
Peter had been the older brother by four years, which meant he had spent most of his life pretending he knew more than Aaron did.
But Aaron had a way of making people feel forgiven before they even apologized.
Three years earlier, on an ordinary weekday morning, Aaron’s heart stopped at thirty-five.
No warning.
No long illness.
One call from Reena, his wife, and Peter found himself standing in a funeral home staring at his little brother in a dark suit he would have hated.
Aaron left behind Drew, who was three then, and Lily, who was barely a baby.
