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doctor in his Converse sneakers. He looked more like an out-of-work actor or a philosophy graduate student. But Alex stood with his shoulders back and had a loping gait that told the world he was someone important despite his scruffy getup.
    I didn’t turn down the radio; it was Love Songs for the Lonely , my favorite show. On the drive to Alex’s apartment, the husband of an elderly woman had dedicated Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” to his wife. “She’s sitting right here with me now,” he had told the DJ, “and she’s as beautiful as the day I met her at the Dairy Queen on Hamilton Boulevard.” The radio show was syndicated, but it didn’t really matter in what city (or town) Hamilton Boulevard was located. At least not to me.
    “I’ve got to say, I’m excited,” said Alex, settling next to me.
    “How nice,” I said, putting the car in gear. Whitney Houston ran out of steam, and the DJ (her name was Mary Helen) began talking to a high school freshman who had been dumped by a baseball player. “My heart hurts for you,” said Mary Helen, “but you have so much happy ahead, honey, and this is just God getting you ready for your real true love.” Mary Helen cued up “Like a Virgin,” which seemed an odd choice.
    “What a load of crap,” said Alex, snorting.
    “I love this show,” I said.
    “I find that really strange.”
    “What?”
    “You are the least romantic person in America,” said Alex.
    I felt a headache gathering behind my eyes. “That isn’t true.”
    “Forget I said anything.”
    I didn’t answer, but I knew Alex was wrong. I was filled with desire. I read romantic novels. I watched Lifetime television. I wanted love so badly it made me feel sick sometimes, scraped out. But I knew the cost.
    The sky lightened as we drove south on Airport Boulevard. “I’ll be honest with you,” I said. “I feel like maybe you won’t come home.”
    “Hey.” Alex put his hand on my knee. “Shhh,” he said, which was what he always said when he wanted me to calm down. Shhh also meant that he would protect me.
    “Even if you marry a beautiful Iraqi,” I said, “come home and tell me in person.”
    “I promise.”
    “Or a TV reporter. Christiane Amanpour. Is she married?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I think she is. But to tell you the truth, Alex, I could see it. She’s similarly dour.”
    “I am not dour!” He shook his head, smiling. He smelled so familiar—that dirty-sock funk had been the same since we’d shared the guest room at our grandparents’ Houston house.
    “Alex,” I said, “what happened to all our stuff?”
    “What stuff?”
    “From the house on Ocean Avenue.”
    “It’s in a storage locker. I guess if Dad ever gets out, he’ll want some of it.”
    I ignored the bait about my father, who was never getting out, as we both knew. “Where?” I said. “Where’s it in storage?”
    “White Plains.”
    “How do you know this?” I said.
    “I’m paying for it,” said Alex.
    “Are you kidding me?”
    “Gramma and Pops told me to clear it out years ago,” said Alex. “I didn’t. I don’t know why. I haven’t been there. I just called and had them send the bill to me.”
    “I only have that one picture of her,” I said.
    He knew what I was talking about because he had the same photograph: our mother sitting on the living room couch, a toddler me on her lap, a boy-size Alex to her right. She was reading to us, a Richard Scarry book, Busy, Busy Town . Maybe that book was in a cardboard box, too, somewhere in White Plains.
    “Where’s the key?” I said.
    “Don’t go there without me,” said Alex.
    “Why not?”
    “Why not? You’d freak out! And you were too young when everything was put in there. You won’t know what’s important and what can be tossed.”
    “When you come home,” I said.
    “Right,” said Alex. “When I come home.”
    Austin-Bergstrom Airport was bustling with early-morning commuters. I turned in to the