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shirt off the back of a nearby chair and slipped it on.
    He took one last glance at the mirror.
    “You look like hell,” he muttered before turning off the light.
    Hank’s workshop was a converted garage that sat back from the home he shared with his father. Projects in various stages of completion were arranged around the room: tables, a dresser, a child’s rocking horse, and a bench that Sarah Enabnit wanted to put near her pond so she could sit and watch the ducks glide down for a swim. Wood was stacked in piles along the far wall: red cedar, black walnut, ash, several types of oak, whatever would be needed for a particular piece. The floor was littered with shavings. Tools hung on the walls: saws, chisels, shaves, files, hammers, planes, rasps, in all different shapes and sizes. His lathe, so old that some might consider it an antique, stood at the ready.
    He turned on the radio, hoping he might catch the last few innings of the Reds game, but it had been rained out. Instead, he settled for the station out of Claxton, jazz that sounded scratchy because of the storm.
    For weeks, Hank had been trying to finish a project. Now, hoping to quiet the turmoil in his head, he went back to it. He had been hired by a wealthy woman from Mansfield who’d already commissioned three other expensive pieces; she was the type who wanted only the best, no matter what it cost. The chair was to have an intricate design, with small flowers circling the outer spindles, rising to a full bouquet decorating the headboard. He’d done this sort of carving before, but this time, no matter how much Hank worked the wood, something wasn’t quite right. Wiping sweat from his brow, he picked up his chisel and mallet and set to it, making a tiny mark here, a small correction there, but it wasn’t long before he faltered.
    “Damn it,” he swore, tossing down his tools in frustration.
    Usually, working with his hands allowed his mind to drift, to forget his troubles. Lost in his craft, Hank could spend hours at peace.
    But not tonight.
    After his dream, he couldn’t stop thinking about Pete.
      
    For as long as Hank could remember, Pete had been his shadow. He tagged along to the movies, laughing at the Marx Brothers, marveling at the ray guns in Flash Gordon , and squinting through his fingers while watching Frankenstein . He followed to the watering hole, shucking off his shirt, pants, and shoes to swing on the old tire, letting go and plunging into the water. He shagged the baseballs that Hank and his friends hit, chasing them into the twilight with only fireflies to light the way.
    He was always there. That’s how little brothers were.
    Pete was six years younger than Hank. He idolized his older sibling, wanting to eat every meal across the table from him, demanding to sit next to him at the barbershop so they could have their hair cut at the same time, and often sliding into Hank’s bed at night to sleep beside his big brother. For the most part, Hank returned Pete’s affection, even if the kid could sometimes be a royal pain in the ass.
    The Ellis boys looked a lot alike, both tall and trim with bright blue eyes. They had the same taste in movies, music, and clothes. Both lived and died with the fortunes of the Cincinnati Reds baseball team. Both attended church, held doors open for others, and behaved, for the most part, as gentlemen. But as Pete grew older, Hank noticed that there were differences between them.
    Where Hank found comfort in being alone, Pete was at his best around others. When he entered a room, all eyes turned toward him. He could talk to anyone, young or old, learned or uneducated, rich or poor, and make people feel like they were important, like someone was listening to what they had to say. Girls flocked to him, drawn as much to Pete’s charm as to his good looks. He had more friends than Hank could keep track of. Before Pete had even entered high school, everyone in Buckton had forecast great things for him.