The worst thing about Carter is that he remembers.
He remembers his mother - only in snippets - a smile here, a laugh there - mostly from photographs, but he remembers all the same.
He remembers his dad and the way things used to be, the way they constantly traveled, the way his father's eyes could be so bright when he talked about the latest artifact he was going to examine.
Mostly he remembers a lighter skinned girl - all attitude and heavy boots and color in her hair - a girl that slipped away, just out of reach, whose name he can't say anymore, not on purpose, for fear of choking up. He remembers the arguing and the teasing and adventure and the fear, and he remembers how family is family especially through all of that, and he remembers that now it doesn't matter because all of it is gone. He is alone.
And as he remembers, there is a pain that consumes him, a heartache that he never thought he could feel, and he wishes to be numb, wishes to forget. But the second worst thing about Carter is that he can't forget, not forcibly, and, as a result, cannot get rid of the pain, no matter how hard he tries.
So as he sits down at the dining table, feeling the weight of his sister's absence and all the extra pain that comes with it, he picks at his breakfast and lets the pain win.