"You have a chance," he said, a snarl in his words, and I had the sudden sense that he had come precariously close to violent action. "And that's more than I've got."

I didn't push him. We got to the end of the trail and moved off it, slowing to walk down the beach, winding down. "Thomas," I said, "what's wrong with you today, man?"

"I'm hungry," he said, his voice a low growl.

"We can hit a McDonald's or something on the way home," I suggested.

He bared his teeth. "Not that kind of hunger."

"Oh." We walked awhile more, and I said, "But you fed just yesterday."

He laughed, a short and bitter sound. "Fed? No. That woman… that wasn't anything."

"She looked like she'd just run a marathon. You took from her."

"I took." He spat the words. "But there's no substance to it. I didn't take deeply from her. Not from anyone anymore. Not since Justine."

"But food is food, right?" I said.

"No," he said. "It isn't."

"Why?"

"It isn't like that."

"Then what is it like?"

"There's no point in telling you," he said.

"Why not?"

"You couldn't understand," he said.

"Not if you don't tell me, dolt," I said. "Thomas, I'm your brother. I want to understand you." I stopped and put my hand on his shoulder, shoving him just hard enough to make him turn to face me. "Look, I know it's not working out the way we hoped. But dammit, if you just go storming off every time you get upset about something, if you don't give me the chance to understand you, we're never going to get anywhere."

He closed his eyes, frustration evident on his face. He started walking down the beach, just at the edge of what passed for surf in Lake Michigan. I kept pace. He walked all the way down the beach, then stopped abruptly and said, "Race me back. Beat me there, and I'll tell you."

I blinked. "What kind of kindergarten crap is that?"

His grey eyes flashed with anger. "You want to know what it's like? Beat me down the beach."

"Of all the ridiculous, immature nonsense," I said. Then I hooked a foot behind Thomas's calf, shoved him down to the sand, and took off down the beach at a dead sprint.

There's an almost primal joy in the sheer motion and power of running a race. Children run everywhere for a reason—it's fun. Grown-ups can forget that sometimes. I stretched out my legs, still loose from the longer jog, and even though I was running across sand, the thrill of each stride filled my thoughts.

Behind me, Thomas spat out a curse and scrambled to his feet, setting out after me.