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the house that Friday after the doctor, I fell onto the couch without thoughts of you or Andrew or Gus or anyone, and I watched six of the best hours of TV I’ve ever watched. (Don’t even remember what I watched.) Around midnight, Jerri came down to tell me she was so sorry about my leg.
    I whispered, “It’s okay.”
    Then I slept like a baby.
    Do you remember at Christmas when Andrew and I were in Chicago visiting and your dad gave me that poem by John Updike about the former high-school basketball star who never made it big and just ended up bouncing inner tubes around in a gas station? I think about that sometimes. I think, That could be me. I think, When I get old, I’ll sprint back and forth between pallet and shelf out at Walmart. I’ll be the fastest stock boy who ever lived.
    It doesn’t make me sad, Aleah. I think I’d like being just a stock boy. Just a nobody.
    I’ll serve the fastest slushy at Kwik Trip!
    My dad was a collegiate national champion in tennis. He killed himself in the garage when I was five.
    â€¢ • •
    Do you think it’s cool if I order room service on Jerri’s credit card?
    It’s kind of an emergency.
    Donkey real hungry!

August 15th, 8:15 p.m.
O’Hare Airport, Part VII (Hotel)
    Dear Aleah, I have eaten an amazing chicken quesadilla.
    I ordered it.
    A man delivered it.
    I tipped the man because I’d looked up tipping on Google and I knew how to do it.
    I am a man.
    (Who can order room service with his mom’s credit card.)
    Here’s something pretty funny I was just thinking about: in eighth grade, whenever I was having a lot of trouble (and, holy ballz, I had trouble in eighth grade), Mr. Faherty, my language arts teacher, would pull me aside and say, “Journal it, Felton. Make some sense,” and I would start journaling in my brain. Abby Sauter shoved me. Karpinski told me I smell like shit. Kirk Johnson knocked me off my bike. My elbow hurts for no reason. I’d just start listing crap in my brain and then I’d repeat it over and over, but I didn’t do the main thing: write it down, make any sense. I just listed the shit.
    Not now. Feels like I’m journaling for you. Am I not a good enough person to journal for myself?
    â€œJournal it!”
    Okay, Mr. Faherty. I will.
    â€¢ • •
    Saturday, March 31st was the first day of the rest of Andrew’s life. Overnight, something big happened to him and he will never be the same, I’m sure. I think. Makes me miss the old Andrew a little. He was a wonderful, innocent boy!
    Me? That morning?
    I comfortably watched beach volleyball on ESPN2 while icing my blown-out hamstring. It was the first day of what I assumed was going to be total isolation and relaxation for several months, and I was in no mood for interaction.
    Andrew has a habit of getting in my business at exactly the moment I crave his attention least. He sort of stumbled down the stairs wearing ratty boxer shorts and his Mozart T-shirt, which he’s had for about ten years (one of the few pieces of clothing he didn’t torch last summer when he decided to dress like a pirate), so it is gross. He said, “Felton?”
    â€œI can’t talk to you, Andrew.”
    â€œWhat if our dad…”
    â€œI can’t talk to you.”
    â€œâ€¦contacted you from beyond the grave?”
    â€œ What? ” I sat up and turned to him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    Upstairs, out of no place, Jerri sang, This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius…
    Andrew flinched at the sound of our mother’s voice.
    â€œWhat, Andrew?”
    â€œWhy can’t you talk to me?” he asked. He had big bags under his eyes.
    â€œBecause I’m in recovery. Did you have a bad dream?”
    â€œI didn’t sleep last night.”
    â€œJoin the club, man. You’re a Reinstein. We don’t sleep. Shake it off.”
    Jerri called from