“Fuck”—Lionel murmurs, shaken. He takes a can of beer out of the paper bag, opens it.

The sight of the house. After so long. It does appear smaller than you recall though it is larger than houses on either side. And it is still painted your father’s preferred gunmetal-gray. Shutters, front door a lighter shade of gray. The roof appears to be in good repair.

A new railing on the front stoop? Black wrought iron? You try to remember if the railing had been there, years ago. Not sure.

Blinds in the windows are up, not pulled to the sills like the house on Harrison Street.

Your heart is pounding rapidly, you can barely breathe in dread of seeing something awful—something that would injure your father’s pride. But nothing has much changed, you think.

Fact is, 388 Black Rock Street is hardly a distinctive house. But it is well-kept, respectable. And the driveway looks new. Trash cans at the curb look new. New-model station wagon in the driveway, bicycles leaning against the garage.

Lionel is staring at the house as he drinks beer out of a can. So distracted, or disoriented, it takes him a while to even think of offering you one of his beers but you say no thanks. Possibly not a great idea to be drinking on the street, and so quickly as Lionel is doing.

“It’s so strange, isn’t it—that other people live there . . .”

Your voice is tentative, wary. A spell has descended upon you and the tall thickset young man beside you panting as if he has been running.

Lionel murmurs a vague assent. Or maybe just again—Fuck.

An acknowledgment of surprise, unless the absence of surprise. Strong emotion, unless the absence of strong emotion. Lionel is drinking beer thirstily though (you guess) Lionel isn’t thirsty at all.

Oddly—though it doesn’t seem odd at the time—you think it’s good your brother’s fierce concentration is directed at the house and away from you.

The family house, sold to pay debts. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of legal fees. Punishment suffered by the family for the sons’ crimes.

But Lionel isn’t thinking this, you are sure. If he feels unease, agitation, it’s for different reasons.

“. . . it’s almost like someone could look out the window upstairs, and see us—and—wonder who we are . . .” You pause, not altogether certain what you are trying to say: “—I mean one of us—like Miriam—looking out the window and seeing us here—grown-up, and changed from who we were . . .”

Though your words are nonsensical Lionel grunts emphatically: “Yeah.”

Pausing, to swallow the last of the beer in the can: “Shit, yeah.”

Your ally, you think. In this strangeness.