David was ringing his bell. Val came into the kitchen, rubbed my head and said, ‘Keep at it, you two.’ Then she filled a glass with water and went out to him. I heard the door slam, and saw her placing the drink in Dave’s hand, help him lift it, wipe the water from his chin, talk to him, and kiss him on the head.

‘That’s what they don’t teach you,’ Peter whispered, as he worked.

‘Sorry?’

But again, no reply. Val stood behind her son and looked at the things he was looking at. Ron and Hester’s closed gate. Les Champness’s shuttered house (a burst of late summer heat). A crow in the middle of the road, picking at something. But nothing, really. Just the possibility of a car driving past, or a skink crawling across the garden, or someone walking along the footpath. Even Ernie, who would acknowledge David because he wasn’t responsible for the cats.

‘I could help,’ I said.

‘What’s that?’

‘If I’m still here. You know, if you need help.’

He almost laughed. ‘You’ve got Doug.’

‘Mum can handle him.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve been looking out for him since … the beginning.’

I knew that. The pictures on the wall. The brothers in a pool their dad had rigged from canvas. Him, Val, watching on. A photo for every year: the boys in short then long pants—Year Four through Twelve, then sideburns and beards, university, graduation gowns. Dozens of photos in the long hallway David was wheeled down dozens of times a day.

‘He’s the only one who’ll listen to me,’ he said. ‘And I’m the only one who’ll listen to him. So it works out okay.’

The endless Peter—David drone, heard from our own kitchen several times a day. Over the six pm news: the number of Russian warheads aimed at Australia. D: That’s because America didn’t deal with them after the war. P: Rubbish. This was always going to happen. Capitalism will eat itself, and it’ll take us with it.

‘It’s strange,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t look after my sister.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She hates me.’

‘That doesn’t mean …’

‘But you’re different. Brothers, for a start.’

‘No different. You’d do it. You will, I guess, somehow.’

Val had gone. David kept scanning the street: left-right-left …

‘Course she’s worried,’ Peter said. ‘Not that he won’t get looked after, but you’re leaving something unfinished, aren’t you?’

I guessed he was right. A child had be fed, groomed, educated, and eventually launched into the world. Then he or she would drift away from the shore, and find a current. But David would remain moored, bobbing in the waves, waiting for a release that couldn’t come. He’d need to be cleaned and repaired, but couldn’t go. And if that were the case, no one would. That’s why Peter mowed his lawn with a scythe and allowed his beard to gather at his knees. Because there was no rush. Home was forever; you couldn’t leave.