"Stay back," Greg's putting his arm back like he's swiping at me, trying to keep me from getting ahead of him, like a dog zigzagging in front to keep the lead. I can't see the furniture except the faint outline from before the lights went out, the curve of the sofa, the edge of the curtain, the Happy Birthday sign still hanging along the window. The street lights are still on outside, and I start to wonder if this is some kind of joke. Earlier he'd insisted upon camping outside, but we were having turkey and swiss sandwiches for dinner and I'd told him about how the cheese mixed with the fresh air and eating it outside grossed me out, and all he'd said was: Oh brother, 'cause that's what he always said after I gave a little of myself, Oh brother, as if we were family.