Just like I’d expect him to, he gives me that goodlier-than-good smile of his, like I ought to be thanking the universe for its magnanimity rather than him for his mortal kindness. But there are still signs that he’s not himself. His brow is shiny. His hands are clenched tight. A thousand wrong things are hitting my brain in its subconscious parts, telling me that Yarrow isn’t quite Yarrow anymore. I see him see me see him. Don’t say anything, his expression says. He’s my brother, and I love him, so I don’t. But he’s also not my brother. I don’t know where my brother went.
