Frank walked numbly from the office, not knowing whether to laugh or cry or both.

Boys can't have eating disorders? You should get a look at my brother. Hey, that boy looks like he's about to die and eats only apples and soup and chugs Ipecac and pops Dexatrim but hell it's not anorexia because boys can't have that. Did I mention the bags of food that keep disappearing? The cereal and the chips and clogged pipes from his binging and purging? But nope, it's not bulimia. Boys can't have bulimia. Boys can't have eating disorders. My brother…

The hallways spun, the empty hallway recently deserted by the lunch bell, and Frank sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands, tears winning out.

My brother, my kid brother, Joe, has anorexia and bulimia. Joe is going to die if he doesn't get help. And he tells me it can't be an eating disorder. What does he know? What does anyone know anymore?

"Frank?"

The elder Hardy looked up, surprised by his brother's sudden appearance.

"What are you doing out here? I went to meet you and you never showed. Are you okay?"

Frank just shook his head.

"Frank, you're crying! What's wrong?" Joe rushed over, dropping to his knees beside his brother. "What happened?"

Frank took in the bones in his face, the small tee-shirt that hung loosely on his emaciated frame, thought of the Ipecac and laxatives and pills, the pain of the past few months, and reached out, clutching his brother, wanting to feel the jutting bones and ribcage because it had occurred to him that his body was better than the cold stiff dead one Joe would soon possess.

"I love you," he sobbed, feeling Joe stiffen at his touch. "Please Joe, please, I love you so much. Please tell me you'll get help. Please tell me you'll stop throwing up. Tell me you'll eat again. Stop doing this to yourself. I don't want you to do this to yourself. Please…please…"

"Frank, it's okay. It's all right…"

"Nothing's all right! My brother is dying! Dying! And I can't do anything to save him! I'm useless and helpless and so scared…" he buried his face in Joe's bony shoulder, rocking him back and forth.

"God Joe, I'm so scared. I'll do anything. Do you want me to stay home? I'll stay home. We'll go to school together. I'll never leave the house without you. Or I'll go away, if you feel inferior to me. I'll get out of your life completely. Whatever you want. Tell me what you want. Tell me how to help you. Please…"

"Frank, Frank, calm down, it's okay, I'm all right, please stop crying come on, buddy, it's okay…"

"Nothing's okay! Shutup! You are not okay!" he ripped himself away and seized Joe's shoulders, shaking him violently. "You're dying do you understand that? You have anorexia! You have bulimia! And you won't get help and no one will listen to me! How would you feel if I was dying and you couldn't save me?" Frank let go of his brother and slumped over, his head resting on the floor, the sobs so violent he could barely breathe.

Joe's hand—trembling, light, uncertain—rested on his back, rubbing gently.

"Frank," he murmured, "please calm down. It's okay. I'm not going to die. I really am okay…"

Frank shut his eyes, fury overwhelming him. The denial was so strong that even his hysteria couldn't break through to his younger brother.

Damn you, Joe. And damn me for not saving you.

"Can't you see what you're doing!" Frank shouted, seizing his brother and shaking him. Joe was too weak to break free, although he was struggling. "You're destroying our whole family! Mom's a wreck, Dad has horrible insomnia, Aunt Gertrude looks like hell, and me…" Frank's voice caught, and he fought the tears. Joe was staring at him, deathly still. "I've lost my partner, I've lost my brother, I've lost

my best friend. I feel like going home and swallowing your whole Godamned bottle of Ipecac and hoping for a heart attack. I don't even want to look at you anymore. No one does. Where are your friends? Nowhere. No one can stand you. None of us want to sit back and watch you kill yourself. So go ahead. Starve and vomit and drink your Ipecac and die alone. I'm not going to stop you. No one is. So feel free."

Frank slowly got the tears under control; he took a deep breath, calming himself, clearing his vision.

And almost wish he hadn't.

The look on Joe's voice said more than words: pain, exhaustion, grief. And betrayal. So much betrayal.

"I knew you'd give up," Joe almost whispered. "All of you. I knew…none of you…really…" the younger Hardy choked on his words, and Frank felt horror seizing his lungs.

No. No! Oh my God that's what this has all been about! He doesn't understand that we love him. He thought we'd give up if he took it far enough. And I just proved him right. I. proved. him. right.

"Joe," he gasped, reaching for his younger brother. But he stumbled away.

"No, Frank. You meant what you said."

"No I didn't…"

"Oh yes you did. Die alone you said. You won't stop me…"

"Joe, for one second try and see things from my side! I'm so frustrated. I'm so afraid for you. I don't want to lose you. Joe, do you hear me? I do not want to lose you. But I don't know what else to do…"

"Just sit back. That's what you said. I might as well just leave and go die in a gutter somewhere in a pool of my own vomit. That's what you said. Just go and…" Joe's voice broke and his knees gave out. "…die."

Frank slowly kneeled down in front of his brother. "Joe," he murmured as his brother buried his face in his hands and wept. "Look at me."

The younger Hardy shook his head.

"Joe," Frank said firmly. "Do you want to die?"

Joe shook his head again.

"Then trust me, buddy. Please. Let me help you. I want to help you. Joe? I don't want you to die. But you are. And you will if you don't get help. Why don't you let me to take you to get help?"

"Because you hate me."

"No I don't."

"You said…"

"Forget what I said! It's not what I meant. I could never hate you. Think for a minute. Pull away from this disease and listen to me. You know me better than anyone, right? You know how much I care about you. You know I've been trying to help you. You know I'd do anything for you, Joe. Please, please let me help you."

Joe didn't say a word; he just leaned forward until his forehead touched Frank's, his face still covered. Frank shut his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling Joe's body shaking with the tears that had them both.

"Take me home?" Joe whispered, reaching up to cling to his older brother's torso.

Frank nodded and gently stroked Joe's hair.