As a child, I spent as much time here as I could. After our epic stories, when Billy went back to his own bed, the house became a cemetery. The silence was unbearable. I felt so lonely. So, I waited until the clock said 9:30. Then I tiptoed through the long, scary halls, all the way to Billy’s room, and crawled under his blankets. The bed was soft, Billy’s body warm. I wrapped myself around him: my arm over his ribs, my nose in his neck, our feet entwined. Close like this, I could finally sleep.

“How long have you been watching me?” I hear.

Billy is propped up against the pillow, naked except for a pair of boxers. His torso is absurdly lean; his chest and shoulders are hairless and pale, and a faint scar, like a faded zipper, runs along his sternum. The paleness cuts off at his biceps, which are tan and rounded with muscle. His forearms, also tan, are roped with cords of tendons that look like telephone wires under his skin.

I offer a sheepish grin. “If I said since yesterday, would you think I’m creepy?”

“Too late; I know you’re creepy.” Billy stretches. “But please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Of course I’m kidding. You’re not that important.”

My brother’s longer hair makes his face look girlish, but he’s bulked up since Christmas and his body is as hard as granite. Sparse hairs trail down to his groin and vanish inside his waistband. Eyeing his phone, he yelps. “Holy shit, it’s almost two! Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You said you hadn’t slept for days.”

“I couldn’t. That place was loud, and I was too scared.”

Yesterday, on the ride home from Trenton, Billy was quiet. He needed a shower, badly. His hair was greasy and matted; his face, drawn and washed out. He looked defeated. As we pulled out of the courthouse parking lot, he started to cry, which made me cry. Eleanor pulled out tissues, and gave Nate the wad to split between us, like we were little kids. Billy rested his forehead against the window and tried to relax, but every few minutes, some sound—car horn, pothole—startled him awake.

Nate couldn’t bear the silence. “So, what happened?”

“Nate,” Lawrence warned. “Let him sleep. He’s exhausted.”

“I am exhausted.” Billy’s eyes were closed. “That place was, like, major sensory overload. The smell was unbearable. It was a combination of sweat, piss, puke, and Lysol. I tasted it every time I swallowed.”

“With Diana.” Nate was insistent. “What happened with Diana?”

Billy ignored him. “It was grim as fuck. Guys jammed together, no privacy. You’re always on guard. I mean, it wasn’t Attica. People weren’t bashing each other’s heads in. But you never knew what was coming. So the threat hung there like, I don’t know, like foul air.”