Steven Hobbs noticed the strange way his younger brother was behaving. He had never seen Simon so absent-minded as he'd been for the last month or so. He didn't know the cause of the distractedness but at first chalked it all up to graduating high school. Going out into the real world. Figuring out life's purpose. Didn't all young graduates feel the shock of life when nearing the end of their high school careers? Fortunately, Simon was set. He knew exactly what he wanted to do and had been accepted to his choice college months ago. There was really no need for him to be nervous, but perhaps Steven was too old to remember what being a teenager felt like, anyway. He was, after all, thirty-seven years to his brother's eighteen.

Steven at times marveled at his little brother, who felt almost more like a son to him. Steven and his wife had raised Simon through most of his schooling and taken in the boy a few years before they'd even had their own children. They now had two little girls—eight and ten—who Simon treated like his own sisters. They were quite dear to him, Steven knew. Simon couldn't have been any more loving had he actually been their older brother.

It was, in fact, the two girls that had given Steven the impression that perhaps the uncertain future wasn't the true cause of his brother's agitation. He'd come home from the office at the usual time. His wife had been making dinner, and the girls were off doing homework somewhere. Simon had been working late at his job at the grocery store. Steven had gone into the television room with a much-needed beer and begun watching the news, most of which was bad, it seemed. Charlotte, the older of the two, had come into the room to sit on her father's lap, and he had lovingly conceded to the request. Lottie was a charmer, far different from her younger sibling, who was a little tempest. In the midst of snuggling her father, Lottie had made a strange remark.

"Is Sy going to get married, daddy?" she'd asked.

They called their uncle Sy, endearingly. They were the only two he would ever have allowed to do so.

Steven had laughed. "Not yet, but maybe someday!" he'd replied.

"Ella said he's in love," Lottie had continued, appearing a bit offended by her father's obvious amusement.

His attention on the news, Steven had not mentally participated in the conversation. "Umm hmm. Well, that's your sister for you. Always dreaming up silly things."

"That's what I said," Lottie had replied, vindicated. "I'm going to tell her you're on my side." And she'd slid off her father's lap and gleefully run off to ascertain her rightness over her sister.

Steven had thought nothing more of his daughter's comments until they'd sat down to dinner. Elizabeth had clearly been annoyed at something. By that time, Steven had entirely forgotten his earlier conversation with his older daughter and looked perplexedly at his younger girl.

"What's the matter, Ella? Did you have a bad day at school?" He took great joy in hearing about their school days. School was always pleasant for a small child.

Ella had not been pleased. "No, it was fine. Lottie says I'm a liar."

Steven had watched her poke morosely at her peas.

"I didn't say that," Lottie insisted, happily tucking into her spaghetti. "I just said that you were wrong."

"Wrong about what, dear?" asked their mother.

"About my uncle getting married," replied Lottie, calling Simon her uncle as if he was hers and only hers.

Their mother had laughed, just as Steven had. "Simon getting married? Yes of course, that's ridiculous. Whatever would have made you think that?"

At that, Ella had tossed her fork onto the table, crossed her arms, and grimaced. "Never mind!" she'd demanded, and that had ended the conversation.

His daughters' quarrel had meant little to Steven at first, but the more he saw his brother, the more the girls' words began to resonate. Simon had been acting aloof, that was sure. Something was on his mind, and maybe . . . maybe it was another person. The idea was so strange to Steven at first. He couldn't recall Simon ever being interested in anyone at all. His brother had always been so serene, so set in everything, whether it was studies, work, or otherwise. Simon had never once been troubled by dating, friends, partying, or any of the other diversions in which teenagers engrossed themselves. The boy's steadfastness had never been a concern to Steven, though perhaps it should have been. Maybe the man should have considered his brother's lack of adolescent normalcy, but Simon had never seemed the worse off for his nature, and Steven had had so many other things to worry about, like keeping his job and making ends meet for his small family.

But now something definitely was on Simon's mind, and Steven felt it his brotherly (and fatherly) obligation to apply his thoughts and advice, whatever the trouble may be. He indeed hoped that whatever was bothering Simon wasn't a crush, as he had had no dealings with relationships since marrying his wife and had quite forgotten what to do with them.

Additionally, Steven didn't really know when to bring up the subject. Simon was home more now than he had been a few weeks back; school was out, graduation was done, and the only thing the boy did was work at his job. Simon's hours were all over the place, and when he did happen to be around, Steven was typically too tired out from work to talk to him. The man tried at first to coerce his wife into broaching the subject, but she'd convinced her husband that it would be far less awkward for him to have the talk than it would be for her to do it. The entire situation was made more uncomfortable by the fact that Steven had never had to have any sort of personal conversations with his brother. Simon was so entirely self-composed—had almost always been—and his behavior had not warranted any inquiries. Had the boy been prone to histrionics, his older brother would have not felt the need to figure out if something was going on; it was the fact that Simon was the least dramatic person on the planet that gave Steven enough worry to eventually pull him aside and talk to him.

He chose one Saturday morning in June to walk his brother to work. Simon had a car but didn't often use it now because he was incredibly aware of the frivolity of it. School had been a good two hours' walk, and even taking the bus typically resulted in tardiness, so he'd found use in his used car, then. Food Mart, though, was only a half hour's walk from their apartment complex. When it was dark, Simon took the bus, but when daylight shone, he walked. Steven offered to walk with him that Saturday and noticed the light shock on the boy's face. Simon adjusted his glasses as if trying to think of a reason his brother shouldn't go with him, but he had said nothing, and the two had left together.

"It's so nice out, isn't it?" Steven began benignly, waving a hand to vaguely indicate the warm, sunny morning.

"Yes," Simon replied. "But I don't think you came with me to look at the weather."

Steven knew he could never hide anything from his brother. Simon had always had the uncanny ability to pick up on when things were wrong and was astute in discerning exactly what a problem might be. "No, not really, although I do think it's a good thing to spend a little time with you, especially since you plan on leaving at the end of the summer."

"I won't be far. I'm going to be right in the neighborhood, you know."

"Yeah, but it won't be the same. You've been living with me for years. I almost feel as if you're my own son, after all. And the girls will miss you."

"I'll visit every day, if you want. Every weekend at least. And I'll bring them all sorts of presents."

"You already do that."

"Well, then I'll write them. And send them presents in the mail. People enjoy getting mail. We don't send it often, anymore, but I'll do it for them. And once I get enough money for a place of my own, they can come and stay with me once in a while."

"You've been so good to my girls, Simon."

"I love them."

"I know you do."

Though it was early, the city was awake, even in the outskirts where the Hobbs family lived. People were out getting their coffees and breakfasts, reading papers on the sidewalk benches. A softball team was warming up in the park, and a yoga class was stretching out on the grass. Too many people to count were walking dogs and riding bikes. Steven had forgotten how much such everyday sights stimulated him. This was one of the reasons he had chosen to raise his daughters in the city. Chicago was alive, inside and out and all around. He would have traded any mansion in some suburb for the apartment he shared with his wife and children.

"So what did you want to talk to me about?" Simon asked. "We'll be there within twenty minutes, and then I won't see you again until tonight."

"Well, I . . ." Steven didn't really know how to begin. He wished his brother could just read his mind and explain everything without his having to ask.

Simon, a good six inches taller than his older brother, turned to Steven, looked down, and smiled. "It's all right. You can ask me whatever you want. Don't be nervous about it."

His hands in his pockets, Steven felt as if his little brother was actually older than he was. He felt a bit like a teenager himself, at the moment. Age was so odd; he didn't know what it felt like to be almost forty; surely it didn't feel the way he felt at present. He'd always thought forty was so old, but weren't old people supposed to be wise? And he definitely didn't feel very smart. "I've just noticed—and Joanna too—that you've been acting a little . . . well . . . a little off, lately." He didn't mention that it had actually been his daughters who had picked up on Simon's strange behavior.

Simon didn't answer directly. He, too, was enjoying the scenery and people around him. But he was interalizing the comment, Steven could tell—maybe trying to decide how to respond to it—and at length, he did reply. "Don't worry, Steven. I'm not doing anything stupid. No drugs or criminal activity for you to worry about."

"You feeling all right about school and everything?"

"Absolutely. I can't wait for it to begin."

"You aren't nervous about it?"

"No, not at all. I've already registered for my classes, and I've been emailing my advisor. I've arranged a time to meet with her next week. The only thing I need to figure out is my living arrangement, but that's nothing to be nervous about. It'll work out fine, I think."

"That's good, that's good," Steven mumbled, knowing he still had more to ask. He felt far more nervous than he should but figured his brother wouldn't discuss the topic of romance unless directly asked. "So . . . are you dating anyone? Anyone you're interested in, right now?"

Simon laughed, and it made Steven feel even more sheepish. "You'd be first to know if I was dating someone. Well, actually, Lottie and Ella might be first to know; they're pretty nosy, and I'm a sucker for their smiles."

There was a brief silence, and Steven considered dropping the subject altogether, but then he timidly added, "You didn't answer the other part of my question."

Simon took a moment to say anything. "What do you mean?"

His brother sensed in his voice a tremor just slight enough to give him reason to push further. "So there's not even somebody you're sort of interested in? It'd be totally normal, you know, Simon. I was just thinking the other day how you've never dated anybody in all your high school years. At least, not to my knowledge." Was it overkill? He hurriedly added, "Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm just saying that it'd be natural for you to be dating someone."

"I already told you I wasn't."

"I know, but I mean . . . if you were interested in someone . . . it'd be—well, it'd—oh, forget it." Steven just wanted to look at what was going on around him. Look at the full green trees and playing children, the early risers and opening shop windows. He didn't know how to talk about such things, particularly with his brother, who gave off the impression that his sagacity knew no bounds.

A few minutes passed during which the brothers didn't talk at all. This only confirmed Steven's guess that his brother did actually have more information on the subject but wasn't willing to share it. This somewhat relieved him; he didn't really want to go in depth about relationships and dating. But Simon's obvious reticence also troubled him. He had never known his brother to be secretive about things.

Simon remained calm, but when he did finally speak, Steven noted an obstinacy in the boy's voice he had never heard before. "You don't have to worry about me, Steven. I'm more content than I've ever been; in fact, I feel as if anything in the world is possible. If someone ever comes into my life in the way you're wondering, I promise to let you know about it. You're my brother; of course I'd tell you everything. But for now, there's nothing like that, and I don't have reason to believe there will be, anytime soon."

Steven didn't know what more to say. If Simon was housing confidences, they were more thought than action. In a way, Steven was grateful. He didn't much know how to discuss any substantive matters with an eighteen-year-old and was relieved that he had daughters and the task of educating them about life's woes and workings fell largely on their mother. Steven had no more reason to believe Simon was being negatively impacted by whatever was in his mind; his apparent distraction, while noticeable, was hardly threatening his well-being so far as his family could tell. It made sense at present to just drop the matter. Everyone had private thoughts and desires; it seemed strange for Simon to have them only because he'd never given his brother reason to guess he ever had.

The rest of the brothers' conversation revolved around simple, safe topics, like the girls' summer activities, work-related roles, and the like. By the time Steven left Simon at the grocery store, he was feeling the full effects of the warm summer day. The desire to take a leisurely route back to the apartment filled him. This might be a good time to look for a birthday gift for his wife, who was turning thirty-six in the next couple of weeks and would not be suspicious of him if he took a little longer on the walk home.

There were countless streets branching off the main thoroughfare down which he was walking. Shops lined them—so many Steven was at first overwhelmed. He didn't recall noticing them on the walk with Simon. He had in mind that he'd like to get Joanna something lovely for their master bathroom, her sanctuary. A lock might have been most helpful, as the girls always wanted to be in there themselves. Nevertheless, looking for a boutique with bath goods or a locksmith didn't narrow down his options, but he chose a street at random and wandered down it, hands in his pockets. Steven didn't very much resemble his younger sibling. He had the same dark hair—a gift from their Italian mother's side of the family—but he was average in height and perhaps slightly too large in girth. He didn't look as if he'd neglected the sun or had been infused with stick-figure DNA. For some time when Simon was in his early adolescent years, Joanna had worried he'd had some sort of illness; he'd begun to look terribly underfed, but at the assurance of the family pediatrician, they'd accepted the fact that the boy was just a good deal awkward looking, and his physical health had no bearing on his teenage growing phases. Neither did Steven possess his little brother's stoicism. He didn't entirely understand his brother's personality—what drove him; in spite of loving him, Steven little grasped what made Simon tick. The boy hadn't ever seemed motivated by or remotely interested in things Steven recalled enjoying in his younger years, but that hadn't mattered, as Simon's grades and behavior had been fairly impeccable. The despondency the boy had exhibited in his childhood years had transformed into a self-assurance and placidity that most adults had trouble achieving.

When their parents and sister had died, Steven had been frightened to take in his younger brother. He'd just gotten married and hardly knew how to be a husband, let alone a father. In addition, he'd never felt all that close to Simon, as he'd been graduating high school the year the boy was born and almost immediately headed off to college. His wife, though—his good, kind wife who he'd expected to be opposed to adopting the boy—had contrarily demanded they give Simon a home, claiming it was impossible for him to go anywhere else. She'd been so good to him, and her patience at a time when they had little money and had hardly begun their life together was one of the things that had firmly cemented their relationship.

Steven's thoughts traced the memory of his sister's death, which had been the shock of his life. Jenny, his darling little sister, who he'd protected and teased and loved—gone so quickly and unfairly. Not her, he remembered thinking, not her! She'd been the most beautiful girl he'd ever known, Jennifer—long red-black curls, eyes that glittered with mischief and a joy for life, always flitting about as agile as if she'd had wings. She'd been a fair creature whose features betrayed an almost crushing vitality, endearing her to everyone—young and old people alike—when most girls her age were flirtatious and sneaky or sullen and removed, Jenny had embraced and been charmed by everything, including her brothers. She'd doted on Simon, just as Steven had doted on her.

All of it was long in the past, now, but sometimes it felt as fresh as if it had just happened—as if he'd just been told. Somehow he and his brother had turned out pretty well notwithstanding.

Though he was strolling past more than a few shops housing potential birthday gifts, something held Steven from committing to enter any of them. Some invigorating sensation coursed through him—he was enjoying this little bit of freedom from his typical routine. It struck him as he watched all the people out and about how many of them there were. The sheer enormity of the human population impressed him in that moment. He would live his entire life knowing only a miniscule portion of them; few would ever lament or even know of his loss when he did get around to dying. Hardly any had cared about Jenny, which had impacted him as if he himself had been hit by a truck. It was astonishing to think that one thing that had altered his life so incalculably hadn't even made a dent in the lives of most others, and he would never be seriously affected by the tragedies and joys so epic in the lives of most of them. In a way, this depressed him. He could never know the hundreds of thousands of people in the city, let alone the millions across the country and billions on the planet. How many of them could have brought him happiness? How many would have hurt him? What intrigues could they have offered, had he taken unfathomable other paths in life? And how could he have impacted others? Why was it that a tiny, tiny few—his wife, his children and brother, a friend or two, an old girlfriend, a co-worker—seemed to sparkle amongst the multitude, while the multitude would now and forever remain a dully throbbing background? Pondering such things was indubitably hopeless; none of it would change or gain lucidity had he wanted it to. Every individual in existence was a microcosm of the universe—a galaxy in which he or she was the central figure, with those making up his or her family, friends, and acquaintances rotating around like planets, the little stars in the distance the myriad other human beings too far or diluted to come into contact. Some people shone brightly at the centers of their galaxies, lighting up everything and spinning all around and around—Jenny had been like this. Simon was like this, too, in a quieter way. But others were like black holes at the center of their galaxies, sucking light out of all the others, threatening to tear their universes and those of others to shreds. All of these people were out there, little worlds, little galaxies in themselves, hardly aware of the galaxy sitting next to them on the bus or on a plane, or eating at a diner table nearby.

His thoughts thus preoccupied, Steven wandered mostly in the direction of home, taking some detours but not worried about losing his way because, like all those who had lived some years in the city, he had developed an instinctual sense of direction to navigate it.

It was when he passed by a convenience store that a huge SUV—too large, really, for the narrow neighborhood streets—jumped the curb as it came too fast down the road and took him through the storefront window.