Louie told them everything. Whatever there was to tell. What we'd seen, where we were from. His name, my name. Even Huey's, Daisy's and Uncle D's.

They made me watch him through a smoked-out, blue-tinted two-way mirror, him sitting in the floor, eyes streaming. Alone and crumbling.

It was a prototype B-13 stealth bomber that'd crashed into our RV, the old man confided. Remote-piloted. Smaller, lighter and faster than previous models.

Louie didnt appear as if he knew what to do with that information—or where to file it.

The old man went on. They'd recovered Huey's body from the steppes and were currently shipping it off to Rachel for processing. Within a week or two the coroner would sign a waiver and the body'd be trucked back to the base for medical research.

There was nothing we could do about it.

Why dont you believe in Heaven?

Why should I?

I didnt say you should.

I frowned: It's just a gut feeling I have.

No it isnt, he snapped. You're not like Huey. You dont think with your gut.

My eyes slunk to the floor. I dont believe in Heaven because I cant believe in Hell.

What do you mean?

I mean—I cant believe in Hell. I cant imagine a world shittier than the one we live in.

You're too severe, Dewey.

Too severe? What am I missing?

My point, for starters. You're only mad at the world because you remember how much you used to love it, how much it used to mean to you.

Dont lecture me.

Stop acting like you're so different. Like you've seen something I havent. Like you know something I dont. We've both been through hell.

Through hell? Where were you when they shot him? Where were you when they killed him?

For a long time he didnt say anything, hurt.

I watched his eyes flitter restlessly. You're a fucking child, Lou.

And? You're a coward.

I laughed at that.

You heap all the pain on yourself, he said, instead of looking for someone to share it with. Because it's easier that way. Because you're afraid that in reality you might not be to blame.

I dont want to talk about it.

Neither do I. But I'm trying. I'm trying to understand.

There's nothing to understand.

Then why blame yourself? Why didnt you stop him?

My eyelids parted, letting in darkness.

I sat up, arms outheld, feeling around with my fingertips.

Two huge squares of light winked open in front of me. Windows.

Please approach the glass, they said.

I wobbled to my feet, the floor cold and slick. I staggered forward. White light melting to blue.

Through the rightmost window I could see Louie slouched in the floor embracing his knees. I placed my palms on the glass but he could not see me back.

I tore my eyes away, hurling them at the other window.

My heart stopped.

Slumped in a wheelchair with a blood drip fitted to one arm and a breathing tube snaked through his heavily-bandaged throat was Huey.

His eyes were closed, his shirt removed. Thin and fragile and pale.

Again the windows spoke.

To your left and to your right are switches. Triggering either will release one hundred grays of ionized radiation into the corresponding chamber, a fatal dosage.

At the sound of the tone you will have two hundred seconds to administer a fatal dosage to one of your brothers. If after two hundred seconds you have not yet made a decision, both will be administered a fatal dosage.

Your heart and respiratory rate are being monitored.

A single low note rang out.

For a moment longer I stared at Huey. He was breathing, his chest swelling. Alive.

Somehow. Impossibly.

I pictured him eating breakfast. Throwing a football. In Uncle D's backyard, wrestling me to the ground. I pictured him up on that rock with his arms raised, laughing. His throaty voice whispering: We're brothers. We stick together.

Then I turned to Louie. I pounded on the glass, flung both fists at it, but he wouldnt budge. He couldnt hear me.

My mouth tasted like iron. Slowly I backed away. How much time did I have? God damn it.

Huey was hurt. Badly. Who knew if he'd even pull through. What if he couldnt talk, couldnt breathe on his own? He wouldnt want to live like that. Wouldnt want to go on.

Louie hadnt done anything wrong. How did they expect me to choose?

My fingers gripped the switch below Huey's window. I peered up at him. His head nodding.

Another low tone sounded.

I tried flicking my wrist but it wouldnt obey. I didnt want to be his executioner, didnt want to think of myself that way. There had to be another option. A button or a lever or a knob somewhere that would fry me instead. All of this was my fault. It had to be.

I could hear Louie's voice murmuring: Why don't you believe in Heaven?

I want to. I want to believe in something. I want to believe in everything.

My hand moved.

There was a flash, followed by a dull bass humming.

Louie gazed up from the floor.

I tried shutting my eyelids but somehow they kept springing open.

Louie palmed his forehead. Then he clutched his stomach. Then he was on his feet, leaning back against the wall. He doubled over, a thin pink drool escaping his bill. For a moment he stood bowlegged in that awkward posture, then he slumped to the floor and lay shaking.

And lay shaking.

I couldnt look.

A door slotted open to my left. Blue light flooded in. I staggered toward it, through it, into the next room.

Huey didnt move when I touched his wrist. He didnt flinch when I touched his neck.

I pressed my ear to his chest. I listened.

Not until the old man entered did his eyelids slick open.

I've done something terrible, I said to him.

But he only stared through me.

At some point I'd sunk to the floor, to my knees.

I could hear the old man approaching, his boots clopping hollowly. Slowly I lifted my head.

He squished Louie's hat down over my eyebrows and turned the bill backward. Then he left the room, signaling for an escort.