When Thomas Edison was fifteen, he traveled around the country filling in as a telegraph operator for men gone to fight the Civil War. Those were electric years for young Edison, years of transmission, of formation, of meaning-making. Our half-brothers spent hundreds of Chris's dollars on the midway at Circus Circus, throwing basketballs at a tilted hoop until they won a life-sized stuffed bear for their mother.

The plan was to meet at the Prius at 7 a.m., get an early start. The sun was firmly up when Chris and I walked out, blinding where it reflected off the metal and glass of the Strip. Later, we watched security footage of Brandy and the boys, with a stolen set of keys, driving away at 3 a.m. Colton was behind the wheel, Brandy in the front seat, Michael in the back with the giant bear.

It's nothing we can't afford, Chris said, shrugging.

We had taken the boys to watch the free circus acts, watched a woman in a polar bear leotard lie down on her back and juggle clear plastic ice cubes with all four limbs. Chris tried to explain that hydraulic engineering sought to amplify the power of human muscle, that someday he would find a way to make the jerky, stop-and-go hydraulic effect as elegant as the motion of the polar bear woman, of the tumblers. The world could use more grace, he said.

Later, Michael did flips into the outdoor pool. Colton teased him. Graceful amplification! Elegant hydraulics!

Chris cheered, refused to correct their Science.

Upon discovery of the empty parking space, Chris's face revealed something close to recognition. I wanted to call the police, but he smiled and pulled Del's will from his pocket: The feds don't need to know nothing about this.

We tabled our disagreement for discussion at a less emotional time and rented a car for the drive back to LA. The desert glowed pink, the soil reflecting the fading burn of a sky. Chris and Chris's phone were both silent, and then Chris said, We did what we could. I wish them well.

I don't know exactly what to wish, Mom, but I thought about the way the wind sometimes blows the clouds lenticular over the mountains. Those clouds are the shape of lenses, named for lenses, but those clouds, like so many other things, are always opaque.

Love, Charley

Chickens

JUST BEFORE SMITH, THAT turncoat of an Agricultural Extension agent, showed up on my farm with the rest of them, me and Jerry stuffed my chickens into wax-covered produce boxes and threw them in the back of the truck. I had just shy of a dozen hens, plus Hitchcock, the rooster. We covered them with insulated blankets to keep the noise down, and we played it real cool while Smith and the other agents searched the place. Extension used to be all advice and suggestion, but they're armed now, the agents, so now it's more like monitoring and enforcement.