“Well, leave it for now. You have a phone call. It’s Gibby’s dad.” She shrugged as if the world rarely made sense and she’d long ago stopped trying to understand it. “Take the call, then come eat your breakfast.”

They had a single phone, so Chance crossed old, brown carpet and sat on the old, brown sofa. “Hello.”

“Chance, good morning. It’s Bill French. I’m sorry to call so early, but I need to talk about Gibby.”

The call was brief but troubling. In the kitchen, Chance’s mother spoke from the stove. “What was that all about?”

“It was strange.”

“Here. You can eat while you talk.” She put a plate on the table. “Go on. Before it gets cold.”

Chance ate some corn muffin; picked at the eggs. “He wants me to come over. He said Gibby needs me.”

“It’s a school day.”

“He’s not going to school. I think something might be really wrong.” Chance waited until she lit a cigarette, and crossed her arms. “Can you give me a ride?”

The drive was out of her way and would make her late to work, but Chance’s mother didn’t complain. And when she parked and looked at her son, the smile came as easily as always. “You tell that Gibby I love him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And this one’s for you.” Chance leaned close to take the kiss on his cheek. “You be a good boy.”

He climbed from the car, watched her go, then mounted the broad staircase. A note was on the door.

Hi, Chance. Go on in. I had to leave for work, but Gibby’s in his room.

Thanks for this.

Opening the door, Chance stepped into a familiar space that seemed eerily quiet. He and Gibby went way back, so he remembered the Christmas parties and the lively kitchen, the thunder of steps as Jason and Robert chased each other up one stairwell and down another. His envies had been simpler then. Brothers. A father. Even now, it was not about the money or the house. Nor was it a dark kind of envy. Maybe it wasn’t envy at all. But there was a steadiness to his friend.

And then there was the war …