December 2005
It's small. Like quiet scuffling sounds in the living room, heralding your brother's return to you, like a curt voice mail message, reawakening the hunter in you. Like two little droplets on your forehead, capsizing your life.
Sam stares mutely at it, vaguely realizing he can't breathe and his vision is starting to gray out.
It's small. An extra treat after their meal, brought with the check, because his brother's smile melts every waitress without exception.
But that doesn't stop the tiny pile of chocolate chip cookies, from yanking the earth out from under his feet.