Charlie could see Don through the window in the door: Don sitting on a hospital bench outside their father's room, sliced up into tiny bits by the wire grid reinforcing the glass. The doctors had shaved a tiny patch around the stitches over Don's left ear, which just made the rest of his hair stick up like duck fluff. It was a family joke that no regulation haircut known to the US government could really make Don's hair lay flat. Obviously the hospital hadn't done much to improve the basic model.

Charlie had wanted to come to the hospital the night before, as soon as he'd gotten Terry's call saying that Don was awake, but Terry had convinced him to wait.

"Come tomorrow," she'd said, "Your father will be able to have visitors then; you and Don can go see him together."

"Are you sure? Amita just left, but I could catch a taxi…" Hospitals were bad, but sitting at home thinking about what was going on at the hospital was even worse. "I mean, we'd still go see Dad tomorrow, but I could just, uh, be there tonight. Put Don on and I'll ask him."

Terry had said that Don was busy with a doctor right then, something about medicine to prevent swelling, but she'd relay the message. Charlie got the feeling that she was trying to keep him from talking to Don without actually saying as much. It was a strange feeling, both because Terry was pretty straight with people and because, Charlie knew, he didn't often have that kind of insight into people: he couldn't always tell when they were hiding things from him.

"So it would be better if I didn't come tonight?" He asked, trusting that Terry would give him an honest answer even if she wouldn't tell him why.

"Yes." Terry said unambiguously. "Tomorrow would be better."

"Okay, then. Tomorrow it is. Only…" Charlie had hesitated, then, not quite sure if he should be discussing his brother with Terry, never quite clear on what their relationship was. "Don—you know, Don, he doesn't sleep much and it gets…I don't know, weird in hospitals at night."

That had sounded stupid even to his own ears, but Terry had understood what he was saying. "Don't worry, I brought a book to keep him from getting bored. It's actually a book he gave me once—the political biography of Adlai Stevenson—and it has never once failed to put me to sleep."

Charlie was going to find that book and buy a copy: Don did look genuinely rested for the first time in longer than Charlie liked to think about. He'd gotten so used to his brother's haggard look that he'd forgotten how good he looked normally. Charlie edged through the door, closing it gently behind him. "Hi," he said quietly. He had the confused idea that he might hurt Don if he talked too loudly or got too close.

Don had no such worries. In two steps, he'd crossed the hallway and pulled Charlie into a hug that nearly took him off his feet. For a minute, Charlie was too surprised to react. Their mother had been the tactile one in the family and since her death, the Eppes men had been getting by with handshakes and pats on the back. He finally managed to free one arm for an awkward half hug of his own.

"Uhh, Don, my arm is..."

"Oh! Sorry!" Don jumps back immediately and Charlie is suddenly aware of the hospital's meat-locker air conditioning. They just stand there for a minute, three feet apart in the sterile corridor, looking at each other. Charlie is sorry he said anything.

"Come on, talk to me," Don says at last, guiding Charlie into a room opposite their father's. It was a consultation room of some sort, not outfitted for a patient. A table and matching chairs in the middle, a window looking out over the parking lot, an arm chair, an endtable with back issues of bland magazines.

Don sits down at the table, hoping that Charlie will follow his lead, but instead Charlie stands next to him, peering at the stitches in his head.

"Look, Charlie…" Don begins, turning to face his brother. Impassively, Charlie pushes Don's head back into profile, gently running his fingers over the healing scars.

"Charlie? This is weird, Charlie—you know that, right?" Don doesn't protest too much, though. It's strangely soothing, even with the edge of Charlie's bandages tickling his ear.

Finally, Charlie steps back. "I just wanted to…uh, make sure." He doesn't specify what he was worried about, just gives Don a sheepish smile: "it was a little weird, huh?"

There's at least a minute of silence and then they both start talking at once.

"Sorry, go ahead."

"No, you first. What did you want to say?"

Charlie is obviously not going to start, so Don takes a deep breath.

"This is not your fault." He lets it settle into the room and then repeats it.

"Okay." Charlie doesn't sit at the table, he kind of collapses into the arm chair, propping his sneakered feet up on the endtable so that his injured arm is cradled in his lap. He looks out the window.

"Charlie!" Don wants to shake him. Hard. But he resolves to stay patient. "Don't take this the wrong way, buddy, but emotions for you are…they're like gravitational forces for me. I know they exist, I kind of understand how they work, but anything beyond the basics and I need to ask a professional. When it comes to people getting hurt, I am the professional here and I'm telling you: don't feel guilty about what happened."

"What makes you the expert?" Charlie asks. Don turns to look at him. He's not being challenging or obnoxious; this is the same tone of voice he used when asking whether Don dealt with jumpers. He's just genuinely curious. Don, having been to college, has a pretty good idea of what Charlie does every day. But Charlie, who doesn't even watch much TV, is just beginning to wrap his mind around Don's life. Charlie's a quick study and the fact that one day soon he'll really grasp what his older brother does for a living—well, that keeps Don up at nights, pacing in his tiny apartment.

"Charlie, I don't want to talk about it. I just want you to know this is not your fault."

"Of course it's not my fault," Charlie says, exasperated. "If anyone's going to feel guilty about this, it's you, not me."