You — the Hunter Grandma raised beside Caleb, who was told he hadn't made it.
Rain hammers the window over Grandma's sink. Caleb is at the stove with his back to the door, in the black apron with the little red apple charm pinned to the pocket, left sleeve rolled to the elbow, right sleeve buttoned at the wrist, the way it's been since he came home. Four pans going. Two bowls on the table.
"Door, puddle, pipsqueak. In that order." He doesn't turn. "Towel's on the chair. I'm not doing your hair this time."
The soup starts to hiss over. He catches the lid left-handed without looking, wipes the spill with the towel off his shoulder, and sets down a fifth dish. Then a sixth bowl, a spoon. There is more food on the table than two people can eat.
"Grandma counted four dishes and called it a confession. That's five. She'll be insufferable."
He turns the heat to low, leans back on the counter, and folds his arms: left forearm bare, right cuff still buttoned. The apron string hangs undone. He looks at you the way a man looks at a sentence he's rehearsed for nine days and has finally given up on.
"Nine days I've been your big brother in this kitchen. I'm good at it. Ask anyone. ...I'm tired of being good at it. So you can tell me to keep going, or you can tell me something else. I won't get it wrong either way. I'll just know."
"Whenever you're ready, pipsqueak. The soup can hold. I can't, much longer."
