Some order had been restored. Jack was home. Mr. Kemper was home. Spring was arriving. New plants were beginning to poke up through diminishing snowfalls. Both twins were back in school. Jack knew that his brother was still incomplete, that Kyle and he had unfinished business, so to speak, and while he felt certain that, when the time was right, things would come together, he still held the small fear of failure inside him. Now, as the weather warmed, the snows hiding the sinkhole and its covering melted and revealed that it was still there. This seemed to distress the entire Kemper family and put them on edge. It was as if a wound had been opened; they'd been able to ignore it as long as it was out of sight, but now that it was back in plain view, it was difficult to pretend it never existed.

The sandbags around the sinkhole were somewhat waterlogged, Jack could tell from his window as he sat there, contemplating the night Kyle had had his accident. He was not allowed in the backyard to investigate the sinkhole, so he had to study it from his window. It was rimmed with wet mud where all the snow had melted. New spring grass didn't seem to want to grow around it. The tree at its edge was leaning far over it, looking as if the hole was attempting to coax it downward into its depths. The black tarps across the pit were also weighted down with water left from the snow. The whole mess looked, to Jack, as if it were about to succumb to gravity and topple inward into the darkness.

He no longer felt afraid of that sinkhole. Not like he had been before. Something in him was more accepting of it, for some reason. Knew that it was there for a purpose. Some fate had caused it to open up in his backyard. And while Jack had been thinking, since Kyle's accident, that nothing made sense, that there was no reason for any event, that it was all chaos—he now was beginning to grasp the edges of this puzzle and put it together. Everything did have an order. Some grand order that he couldn't understand but that had to do with the physical reality he and others knew as well as the otherness, the dark and light and beyond of the physical world. There were balances underneath the concrete painting around him, and those balances, when they shifted for reasons neither he nor Miss Collins could know, had to be accommodated for in the human world. Of course, most people couldn't understand that, but Jack knew it, now. And so he felt less animosity toward the sinkhole. It was not an evil, senseless act that it had appeared there. It was some event to restore balance. He couldn't know what had moved out of place, only that this was the process by which it had to be put back together. His brother's fall into the hole, his father's leaving, his stint with medication—all of it had to do with this restoration. If he and they were strong, they would make it through together.

That was the true test.

His parents were doing better, Jack knew. They were restoring one another. He felt it whenever he was around them. Their love had never disappeared, as he'd feared it had; it had been tested. And they'd survived it. And he, Jack, had survived his test. He'd made it through his own darkness and come out of it changed, but in one piece.

Kyle, on the other hand, needed help. Jack knew it. His brother was too weak to do much of anything on his own. He had sunk too far into his own misery and bitterness to find his way out.

A bird rested on the windowsill, startling Jack a bit. His thoughts scattered, but his mind had set itself. He couldn't delay any longer. He had to begin talking to his brother again. That sadness of their lost friendship resurfaced in him. He alone could restore Kyle, but how?

The little bird ruffled its feathers. Got comfortable. Looked squarely at the boy beyond the glass. Jack for some reason was reminded of Grace—her light, flighty mannerisms—and he smiled to himself. Perhaps Grace, too, would one day go through something similar to what he'd been through. What Miss Collins had been through. But Anne had said that Grace might never have to—that some people never did. Lucky her.

Grace—her never having to . . .

Jack took in a breath. Just because someone was like him, and Grace, and Miss Collins didn't mean that they would necessarily experience some life-altering shift in reality, as he had. Did that mean that those who were unlike him, such as Kyle, could have to undergo some harshness in order to make it through? Something similar to what he, Jack, had undergone? It wasn't wholly impossible, he felt. In fact, nothing in the world could be deemed absolutely impractical, after what Jack had been through. Perhaps Kyle's recovery wouldn't be as simple as a good talking-to or a brotherly hug. Maybe the boy needed more than something the family and friends around him could offer. It was possible, Jack thought, that Kyle's abject condition required more than anything he or his parents could do.

Rising suddenly, Jack startled the bird on the windowsill, and it flittered off into the cool dusk. The boy watched it for a moment, then turned and left his room. Kyle was downstairs, so that was where Jack went.

When he reached the television room and saw its eerie bluey glow outlining Kyle's form on the sofa, Jack took in a quiet breath. The overhead light was not on, so the entire room was lit merely with the television. For some reason, Jack had never really felt comfortable in the artificial lighting of things like TVs and computers. He preferred to have a lamp accompanying such light. Nevertheless, he neglected to turn on the ceiling bulb and went over to the sofa, where his brother rested.

Kyle's wheelchair sat empty next to him, and the boy himself laid down, head on a pillow, eyes blankly staring at the television, legs lifeless on the couch. Anyone who didn't know Kyle would think nothing of his immobile figure—would have no inkling the boy was crippled—until they took note of the wheelchair. Then they'd understand, and they'd pity the boy on the sofa, which was exactly what Jack knew he no longer could do.

From pity grew excuses, and Kyle needed no more of those.

Sitting down at the end of the sofa, Jack stared at his brother. He knew Kyle wasn't just ignoring him—Kyle didn't even really see Jack. Or notice him. Kyle was too wrapped inside his own head to notice anyone beyond himself.

"What're you watching?" Jack attempted.

He wasn't answered.

He tried again: "Anything good on?"

Still, nothing.

Picking up the remote, Jack thought he'd give it one last shot. "Mind if I change the channel, then?" If there was anything that'd get his brother, it'd be switching off the show he was absorbed in. But even when Jack switched to some news station, Kyle barely flinched. Made no sound of protest whatsoever. Just laid there, unmoving, staring. Just staring.

That's how bad it was.

Jack sighed deep, deep within himself. This was what he had to change; this was the person he had to bring back to reality; this was to be his biggest challenge. Somewhere inside, he'd known all along that everything relied on his relationship with his brother. He knew that regardless of his parents, regardless of friends outside, regardless of his own journey—everything centered on Kyle.

If his brother needed to go through some experience in order to change, Jack thought, what could it possibly be?

Kyle shifted slightly on the couch. Moved his head a little to the left on his pillow. Then he smiled.

Jack was in awe. "Kyle?" he asked, though he felt strange as soon as the word left his mouth. There was something odd in his brother's smile. Something . . . unnatural. It was as if he was seeing something that Jack wasn't. Kyle was staring beyond the television screen. Beyond the room. He wasn't even seeing the room, it seemed.

A chill moved through Jack. Was it possible Kyle was seeing something unreal, something not physical? But, then, wouldn't he see it, too? Because Jack saw nothing at all in the direction his brother gazed. He saw no light spots, no dark spots; there was even a hole, it seemed, where there would normally be whispers. Yes, Kyle was staring at nothing. Nothing.

His lower lip trembling, Jack moved away from his brother and rose from the sofa. He knew, innately, that Kyle was empty inside. There was no human left of him.

Something had to be done fast.

Tonight.

Or Kyle might be lost for good—might already be lost for good.