Weed wandered inside and imagined he could smell Twister’s Obsession cologne and hear his laughter and teasing talk. He envisioned Twister sitting in the middle of the floor, long muscular legs folded up as he put on his shoes and called Weed his “little minute.”

“See, it takes sixty of those to make an hour,” he would say. “Now I know you can’t add worth shit, but trust me on this one. Soon you’ll be an hour, then a day, then a week, then a month. And you’ll be big like me.”

“No I won’t,” said Weed. “You was twice as big as me when you was my age.”

Then Twister would unfold himself and start dribbling an invisible basketball. He would take on Weed, faking left and right, keeping the ball tight against him, elbows going this way and that.

“Time’s running out on the clock and I got just one little minute!” Twister would laugh as he snatched up Weed and dunked him on the bed, bouncing him up and down until Weed was dizzy with delight.

Weed walked over to the desk and sat down. He turned on the computer, the only thing he ever touched inside his brother’s room, because Twister had taught Weed how to use the computer and Weed knew Twister would want him to keep using it. Weed logged onto AOL. He sent e-mail to Twister’s mailbox and checked to see if anybody else had.

Other than the notes Twister got daily from Weed, there was nothing else.

Hi Twister

You reading my letters? They ain’t been opened, but I bet you don’t have to open them the way other people do. I ain’t changed nothing in your room. Mama don’t come in it. She always keeps the door shut.

Weed waited for an instant message. He somehow believed that one of these days Twister was going to contact Weed through the computer. He was going to say,What’s ticking, little minute? I sure am glad you’re writing me. I see everything you’re doing so you better be keeping your ass straight.

Weed waited and waited. He logged off and turned out the light. He stood in the doorway for a while, too depressed to move. He wandered into his bedroom and set the alarm clock for 2:45 A.M.

“Why you not here?” he said to Twister.

The dark had no answer.

“Why you not here, Twister! I don’t know what to do no more, Twister. Mama quit coming home, works so much it’s like she got hit on the head or something. Just sleeps and gets up and goes. She hardly talks no more ever since you went on. Daddy gives her a real hard time and now I got Smoke. He might kill me, Twister. He wouldn’t if you was here.”

Weed went to sleep talking to Twister. Weed slept hard, his head full of cruel dreams. He was being chased by a garbage truck that made horrible scraping sounds as it rumbled down a dark road looking for him. It was on his tail no matter which way he went. He was sweating, his heart hammering when the alarm clock buzzed. He snatched it from the bedside table and turned it off. He listened, hardly breathing, hoping his mother was still asleep.