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was thinking hard. “Is it Brian? Do you still hate him that much?”
    Chris sat back, and a look of hurt washed across his face.
    “I’ve never hated him.”
    “No one would know that, from the way you’re acting,” Jon said, trying not to be angry, at a loss. The conversation was veering off into territory he wasn’t prepared for.
    “The way I’m acting? What exactly did he tell you?”
    “Nothing,” Jon said, fidgeting where he was. “But I can see it. I’m sure everyone can.”
    Again Chris fixed him with a stare, keeping his face a neutral mask. Jon found it disconcerting; it was so unlike the Chris he remembered from before.
    Voices drifted up the stairs, and the sound of footsteps. Brian’s voice, with two smaller answering him. He was bringing the boys up to bed. Jon nudged the door closed with his foot. Brian shushed them as they passed and went into the loo to brush their teeth. Jon looked back at Chris, who stared blankly at the floor, his arms crossed.
    “Are you going to let what happened back then ruin everything now?”
    Chris answered him in a monotone. “It’s not entirely up to me, is it?”
    “But you’ll try, won’t you, to make it work?” Jon persisted, a bit of desperation creeping in. The thought of the two of them, Chris and Brian, remaining as angry at each other as they had been before made him feel slightly sick.
    “Of course,” Chris said, reaching for his coat draped across the foot of the bed. “This ought to be washed,” he went on, changing the subject. Jon stayed still, watched him empty the pockets onto the coverlet.
    It was a roomy jacket with deep pockets, and Chris had put them to good use. Among the junk, Jon could see two folding penknives, a spoon, bits of paper, string, candle stubs, a blood-test card, coins, keys, and rocks. He thought he saw a bullet, or at least a casing. From a breast pocket, Chris pulled a bunch of folded maps and other papers. Lastly, from an inside pocket, he pulled out a black handgun. He glanced up at Jon as he stuffed it into his duffel.
    “Where did you get that?” Jon asked.
    Again, the pause before Chris answered.
    “I found it. It’s handy if you’ve got bullets for it.”
    “Have you?”
    “A few.”
    “Have you used it?”
    Chris straightened up to look at his brother with his face hard, then shook his head and turned away. “No,” he said, but something about the way he said it made Jon think he might be lying. Chris dropped the coat into the laundry basket with the rest of his dirty clothes.
    Out in the hall, beyond the closed door, they heard Brian say “Good night, sleep tight,” and pull the boys’ bedroom door closed. Chris watched the door as footfalls descended the stairs. Jon kept quiet. Chris began to scoop the debris from his coat pockets into his bag.
    “Rocks?” Jon asked, to break the uncomfortable silence.
    “Flints,” Chris replied. “Handy...” and Jon remembered making sparks when they were children. He glanced over at the bureau, where a small framed picture sat. He’d taken it from his own chest of drawers, put it there earlier after he’d made up the bed, a small gift for Chris. It was one of the last group pictures taken of their family: their mother and the three boys, she looking happy and proud, the boys all looking a bit annoyed. He didn’t remember how old they all were. Teenagers, obviously. Chris looked over and saw it too. He moved tentatively, reached out, picked it up.
    “Huh,” he said softly.
    “I thought you might like to have that.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I have some others. I’ll show you tomorrow, or whenever.”
    Chris looked up from the photo, his eyes bright. “I’d like that. I haven’t any left.”
    Chris’s tone and what the statement implied wrenched at Jon, and unexpected emotion welled up without warning. “God, I missed you,” he rasped, his throat tight. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
    “Me, too,” Chris nodded. He put the picture down, seemed