You walk down the hall and falter. What if you haven't cleaned all the blood from beneath your fingernails? What if Larsa can see it in your countenance?
But, still, you push open his door. Larsa sits at his tiny desk, pen in hand, and he writes slowly, with a furrowed expression. "L...A...R...S...A... S...O...L...I...D...O...R..." he murmurs as he writes.
You peer over his shoulder and have to smile. "Your a's are backwards," you tell him.
"Oh," he sounds so put out that you put your hand on his head.
Larsa tilts his head back and smiles up at you. You close your eyes—oh, and you love your remaining brother, don't you?—and he throws out the paper.
His next attempt is no better and you grimace—his first name he mangles, but his surname is perfect. Gently, you relieve him of his pen.
This is not the life you want for your youngest brother. Corruption does not suit him.
"Come, Larsa," you say, "That is enough for today."
He looks at you, puzzled, but allows himself to be led to the door.
"Are we going to see our brothers?"
"No," you say, "No, we are not."
