I learned about the arrest at three that morning. “Dad?” The word escaped before I even registered the noise that stirred me from the sofa: a hum and a rattle, the garage door going up and then back down. Rising, I reached the back hall as he entered the house.

“Not now, Gibby.”

He showed me his palm, but I trailed him to the kitchen. “Where’s Jason?”

“It’s late, son.”

“You followed me. You used me.”

He stopped, at last. “Because you lied to me. You left me no choice.”

“That is bullshit.” He sighed; I hated that. “Did you arrest him?”

“I need to speak with your mother.” I blocked his way, and thought, at first, he would argue. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry, son. I truly am.”

That’s when I knew for sure.

As the sun rose hours later, I heard my father leave the house. For some time after that, I lay in bed thinking of Sunday mornings and church and how it used to be. For all my childhood, we’d attended as a family, but that ended when Robert was killed, and we sank into this strange half life without smiles, vacations, or Sunday service. Today, that bothered me, so I showered and gave myself a rare shave. I dressed with exceptional care, and went to church on my own, arriving a few minutes after the start of the early service, and slipping into a pew at the back, all of it so familiar: the dark wood and the people, the organ and the colored glass. I opened a hymnal, but didn’t sing along. Afterward, there were readings that made sense to me, but then the minister took the podium to speak of war and sacrifice and salvation for all people. With one brother dead and the other arrested, I found his words so hollow that I almost left. I actually rose to my feet, but then I spotted Becky Collins four rows down, seated across the aisle with Dana White’s family. Her hair was up—which I’d never seen before—and the curve of her neck struck me as the most vulnerable thing, pale as it was, and fringed by a spill of small, soft hairs. She must have felt me staring, for she turned and saw me and blushed. Dana’s father turned as well. He stared at me for long seconds, then stood and squeezed past his family, working his way into the aisle. A large man with wide, rough hands, he was a foreman at the Freightliner factory, a man used to telling others what to do and how to do it.

“Gibby.” He slid into the pew beside me.

“Mr. White.”

“How are you, son?”