My brother, Ace, died two and a half years before I started Granby. On campus, I’d mark certain spots on certain days (his birthday, the anniversary of his death, the day I wanted him to know the Pacers won the division title) by peeling off a swath of tree bark or stepping a stone hard into dirt—leaving some mark that would be there later. I’d check it weeks or months on. Sometimes I’d carve his initials, but more often I’d just slightly alter the world.
