"Be nice," my father says, "after all, he is your brother."
Michael peers out from his hiding spot behind Dad's legs and sticks his tongue out at me.
"All the more reason to hurt him!" I retort with a scowl.
My dad shakes his head, giving me this sort of condescending look, like I expect more from you, Emory. Sometimes I wonder if he knows I will never meet his expectations. Hell, I wonder if he even knows me at all.
I know that I'm losing the battle here, and clearly, so does my father, because with a last disappointed head shake, Dad points his finger towards my room. He doesn't need to say it. I may be sixteen, but I still get time-outs. I gather up what's left of my dignity and march up to my prison cell, also known as my bedroom.
But not before I can scream "I hate you!" at the spot where my brother's head must be.
Before I even slam the door, I know I shouldn't have said it. I hear Michael begin to sob out in the living room, with my father attempting to console him. I instantly want to stick my head out and apologize, but the damage has already been done and I know it. I throw myself onto my bed and attempt to block out the ear-splitting howls my brother emits as he dashes past my room, no doubt on his way to find comfort in his stuffed animals. The "sorry" I so desperately want to voice is trapped in my throat, slowly choking me.
It takes Michael an hour to reduce his wails to loud sniffles. I hear banging coming from his room, and I imagine this to be the part of his tantrum where he gets mad at me (rightfully so), but Michael doesn't seem like the type to throw things around. Still, my punishment hasn't been lifted, so I remain on my bed, gloomily reading a book.
I know something is very wrong when it stops. I can feel it through the walls. Panic fills my every pore. I jump up and begin to pace. What have I done? I think, beating and berating myself inside. Still, I don't leave.
At least, not until I hear sirens.
Three hours, I think, I was in my bedroom for three hours. What could a six-year-old boy do in three hours?
Dashing down the stairs at lightning speed, my heart threatens to burst out of my ribcage. I hear the police and my father talking; hear my mother's heart-breaking sobs. This can't be happening, can't be happening.
All heads turn when I enter the kitchen. There are two police officers, both of them tall and impossibly thin, like human wires. I look around the kitchen for the face I long to see and do not find it. I cannot breathe. Slowly, I open my mouth.
"Where's Michael?"
Mother's weeping becomes hysterical.
The police officer on the left, the taller one, answers me coldly. "Didn't you know? He ran away."
I feel my muscles stop working and I collapse onto the floor. My mother ungracefully flies out of her chair to wrap her arms around my torso in an uncomfortable, sympathetic hug. I lean into her and inhale her floral perfume, unable to cry, too shocked to move. The taller police officer's stare is unforgiving.
"Because of me," I say quietly, practically impossible to hear as Mother continues to cry.
"We can't be sure," says the shorter officer with a kind smile, "'he's only been missing for an hour."
On any other occasion, I'd tell him that I was not asking a question, and if I was, he didn't answer it, but a combination of shock and fear for my brother stop me. This stranger is the only person in here that's on my team. Even Mother must hate me deep down for what I've done.
To prove my thoughts correct, my mother hiccups.
The taller officer frowns at his partner before addressing Dad. "We'll organize a search party for your son immediately. He can't have gone very far..."
I tune out the rest of what the man has to say. I don't want to hear it. These police do not know my brother. They don't know what he's like, so how can they know where he'll be? He could be dead, by the time they find him. The thought of my little Michael, laying dead in some dark alleyway startles me. I don't allow myself to imagine it anymore.
Suddenly, it hits me like a ton of bricks. I know where my brother is.
I entangle myself from my mother's awkward embrace, grab my keys, and run out of the room, my father close behind me. "And where do you think you're going?" he says tiredly.
I pause, one foot already out the front door, and look back at him. "To find my little brother," I say, and with that, I close the door.
Fifteen minutes later, I park my car in the parking lot of a gas station. The sun is starting to set, and my car is the only one in the lot. I wipe away the tears that hit me as I drove and hop out.
I break into a run as I cross the street to the shallow creek that winds through the valley. When I first got my license, I drove Michael here. We sat on the big stones and waded up to our knees and caught little minnows in old pickle jars. Michael knows this place like the back of his hand. I can only pray at this point that my hunch was right.
Sure enough, I see a little blonde figure sitting on one of the rocks, and I instantly begin to cry again. "Michael," I scream, "Michael!"
He turns around, sees me, and stands. For half a moment, I think he might run away from me, but then he charges towards me, arms outstretched.
We meet each other halfway in a bear hug. I sob into Michael's soft head, and he wipes his tears on my shirt. "I'm so sorry Michael," I whisper in his ear, "I love you. I always have. I always will."
Michael nods and mumbles a muffled "I love you, too" into my stomach. I rub his back gently, and our cries slow. The night air is sweet in my nose, and the creek innocently babbles in front of us.
We stand there for what feels like a year, holding each other in silence. If I could stand like this forever, I would. Finally, Michael pulls away and breaks the silence.
"Emory?"
"Yes, Michael?"
He inhales deeply. "I think...I think I'm ready to go home now."
I look down into his little face and press my cold hands to his soft cheeks. "Me, too."
We turn together and make our way across the street. My hand reaches out and finds Michael's own small, gloved fingers. His grip is firm, as I never remember it being. I squeeze his hand tight. I never, ever want to let go.
