Frank Hardy lay on his back watching the ceiling, trying hard to quell the violent swirl of emotions threatening to rise to his throat and eyes in sobs and tears.

Joe would be home tomorrow; two days after the doctor had announced his release. And although the elder Hardy had missed his brother terribly, he dreaded his arrival back at the house. Joe, smaller than ever, grimly triumphant—"see? nothing's wrong with me Frank, they're letting me go!"—the illness embedded in him deeper than ever.

The past two weeks had been extremely difficult on the Hardy family. Frank's Aunt Gertrude had moved in to help keep the house running, as Fenton and Laura were devoting any spare time to reading psychology books and contacting doctor friends for any and all information they could put together on their younger son's illness. Things had only gotten worse when it became obvious that Joe was not responding to treatment, nor did he have any intention of trying to make use of his time there.

Things had gotten progressively worse, as the younger Hardy continued to lose weight and withdrew more and more, speaking to no one—not his doctors, not the other patients, and not is parents. No one but Frank.

The elder Hardy boy sighed thinking of the conversations of the past few weeks, thinking of the previous Sunday's visit, Joe leaning into his embrace, saying little.

"Brother, please, please say something. Tell me what you're thinking. Let me help you."

"It's okay, Frank. It will be. Once I'm out of here, you'll see. Don't worry? Please?"

Frank had been sickened by the depth of his brother's denial, even more sickened by the responsibility on his shoulders: Joe spoke to no one else, and since his brother was normally his confidant, it seemed that everyone was looking to the elder Hardy boy for some sort of miraculous insight.

"Sometimes the patient needs to…bottom out, so to speak. Become so physically debilitated that they have no choice but to admit that there's a problem and accept treatment."

What did that mean? What were they supposed to do then? Frank had never been one to sit back and let a problem fester without trying to stop it, and he certainly never allowed his younger brother to go on hurting without trying to ease his unhappiness.

But…what more could he do?

"Honey?"

Frank looked up, startled, as his mother opened the door to his room. "Hey, Mom."

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

Laura Hardy crossed the room and sat beside her elder son, pushing a few loose strands of hair off his forehead. "I had the toilet's checked out," she said wearily.

"And?"

"The pipes were filled with vomit. He's been alternating toilets, which is why they were all clogging. It's a mess."

Frank sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "That's great," he muttered, "that's just great."

Laura watched her son anxiously for a moment. He seemed to have grown older these past few weeks, more withdrawn than usual. She knew, they all knew, that he was missing his younger brother; still, it amazed her how closed Frank could be without Joe to draw him out, how little he laughed or smiled, how he threw himself into his school work and the psychology books alongside her and Fenton, going to library almost nightly and returning with stacks of books on anorexia, bulimia, depression—words they still struggled to say.

"How are you?" she asked gently, lightly touching her son's arm.

The elder Hardy boy shrugged weakly.

"Honey…I know things are hard right now. But please don't blame yourself for this. You're not responsible for your brother or his actions."

"Mom, it's like…everyone's depending on me! I'm depending on me. I thought I could make him understand he's wrong. I thought I could help him. But nothing I've done has been any good."

"Nothing anyone has done has done any good," Laura corrected firmly. "Frank, you're not alone here. We all care for Joe, and so do his doctors, but if he refuses to help himself…then maybe he's not ready to recover."

"Then we make him recover!"

"How? What else can we do? Aside from feeding tubes—"

"No."

"My thoughts exactly."

Frank looked away, out the window to the night, as if it held some unseeable answer.

"Frank, you and I both know that Joe's not perfect. He's stubborn normally, but now with this, it's a real roadblock to his recovery."

"Don't say recovery. It sounds like a drug addiction or something."

"It is an addiction, somewhat. It serves the same purpose as alcoholism or drug addiction. It's a cover up, a defense mechanism to his other feelings."

"I know."

Laura sighed, wishing she had some words to comfort him, knowing there was no comfort, for him or her or her husband, until their youngest family member was getting well.

"Well…we have his discharge session tomorrow…one last family therapy…maybe something we'll change before them."

"Sure."

Laura sat silently then, hoping to giver her son some sort of comfort with her presence, wishing she still had the power she had possessed in her children's youth—the power to ease and alleviate their pain with a few kind a words, a pat on the shoulder, a gentle, tender touch. But her boys were men now, and had faced not only physical pain, but now this very real mental anguish that her younger son seemed to feel only he had the capacity to feel.