When I think of an atlas, I think of maps—coherent, useful, reliable. These aren’t my stepbrother’s attributes. He’s what you’d find if you opened the glove compartment and bits and pieces of a map exploded onto the passenger seat. And even if you went through the trouble to tape it all back together, you’d discover it wasn’t printed right—Phoenix in Alabama, London in Peru, Barcelona in Japan. That’s Atlas McCallister. Rogue. Reckless. Troublemaker.
