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gone.”

FOUR
    Chase is home. At least I think they brought home the right guy. It has been six months since I last saw him, and I barely recognize the shriveled form they tell me is my brother. He is wearing the sports shirt and khakis pants I saw Mom leave the house with, folded across her arm. The shirt hangs on him like a flag on a flagpole in a dead calm. When I say hello to him, his eyes are vacant and his face is an expressionless wasteland. I’m can’t even be sure he knows who I am. But then, for the past two years Chase has used meth as regularly as the rest of us have gone to bed at night and got up in the morning, and it shows.
    For two days, Chase has been lying around the house like some invalid. Mom has taken two weeks off from her job as a secretary at an old folks’ home. She says it’s to help him put on weight, to help him get started on the road to recovery. But despite how she coddles him, he’s not a helpless infant. He does know how to warm up a can of soup. No, I think it’smore likely that she and Dad agreed she should take the time to prevent him from breaking his bail conditions. Although, when I see Chase walking down the hall without a shirt, I find it hard to believe that he’d have the strength to bend a straw let alone put a man the size of Richard Cross in the hospital.
    On the third day he is home, Mom has to run some errands. When I get home from school, she tells me I am to look after Chase. “He’s eaten well today,” she says, like he’s four years old and has just learned to tie his shoes. “He’s watching a movie right now. Maybe you can start dinner, Gordie. Peel the potatoes and make the salad? I’ll be back in time to cook the rest.”
    I have said little to Chase since he came home. It’s hard to know what to say to him because, in a way, it’s like some stranger is sharing the house. But the reality of what he’s done has been sinking in, and Mom’s approach that he should be pampered rather than held accountable is wearing thinner than his chest. Especially at four in the afternoon when I walk into the living room and see him sprawled on the chesterfield watching
Cape Fear
while I’ve been at school all day.
    â€œHaven’t you seen that?” I ask. “Like five times at least.”
    He holds a hand up to stifle me. “Shh, this is the best part.”
    I have told no one but Jack about Chase’s dealers threatening me, and now, watching him lie there stuffinghis face with taco chips and pistachios, the memory of Ratchet swinging that pipe sends me over the edge. I snatch the cushion from under his head and slam it over his face. Chase grabs my arms and struggles to get out from under it, but he has absolutely no grip. I am amazed at how totally weak he is. I pull the cushion off but continue to pin him down. “You whacked-out spineless creep! Your screwball dealers came looking for you. They beat on me instead. I don’t want anything to do with you or your psycho friends. Do you hear me?”
    â€œGet off of me,” he splutters.
    â€œThey tell me you owe them two grand. How are you planning to pay that off? Mom’s jewelry or Grandma’s TV this time?”
    Chase starts to whimper. “I don’t know. But they broke Harris’s hand. He owed them five hundred. They’ll probably break my neck.”
    I stand up. I throw the pillow at him, but he has no reflexes, and it hits him square in the face. I realize why he hasn’t attempted to leave the house. He’s afraid of those two goons.
    â€œDo you know Mom and Dad have risked the house on you? They’ve got no savings left. You’ve cost them everything they have.”
    â€œYeah, I know,” he says without emotion. “You’ve got to help me.”
    â€œWhy should I? Look at you. There’s a guy lying in the hospital with his head split open because of you, and