I'm 37 years old, and my hands are cold. I'm beginning to know what to expect.

Pop's dead and we've got to settle accounts. I've got to let my brother Ben know about everything. All of it. See if that doesn't make an anchor we can both hang on to.

I loiter on the corner of South Main out in front of the bank. I check my watch. Ben's late. Sunset is a rotten orange. Wildfires in Canada, the news said.

Lodi is quiet. It's been about five years since I've been to the farm. Takes work to make it out there. Logistics of the heart.

Pop's ancient truck comes rumbling around the corner of Portage Street, and for a sharp moment, I think he's driving it, but that moment passes in a flash of sunset across the windshield. Ben really does look like him now. He pulls the truck to a stop behind my car and greets me with a warm, sad smile.

"Hey, Lou," he says, stepping out of the truck. He pulls me into a hug.

I straighten out my suit after we part. "I can't believe that old thing still runs."

The truck is clean, painted a cheery mint green. I stay quiet too long. Ben is a doctor. Good bedside manners. He can read a patient.

"You OK, Lou?"

I lean back against my car and massage the bridge of my nose. I'm 37 years old. Lodi, Wisconsin. Here's where I've got to tell him everything. Ocean between us.

"I don't know how to keep things straight," I say. "How to talk about it."

"Well, we're talking right now," Ben says. He leans on my car next to me. "I'm your older brother. I'm also a damn good doctor with a valid script pad. What's ailing you?"

War. Total war. We split the atom and put our world on a map. Now all the beasts of the dark forest know. They know about me and you.

"I feel like some mean bastard up there is hammering a wedge between us," I say. "And a different bruiser is whacking that wedge the other way." I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I'm all mixed up."

"I know," Ben says. There's something knowing in his eyes, and I realize part of him has always known about me. The fatigue he carries is the same as the nameless weight I cannot find words for. Maybe in a different language.

"You remember when we stole that?" I ask, pointing to the truck.

"We ran outta gas," Ben says. "Near some small town."

"Assumption."

"Did we ever actually make it to Uncle Tomás? I can't recall."

"Not yet."

Ben's back there again. Time to jump in.

"You remember what found us? That third thing."

An epiphany. Ben understands: We are each other's witness. Each other's constant, minted that day on the road to Assumption. He's right here next to me, finally.

"What did it say to you?"

"That everything is gonna be OK."

The bank door swings open, and a young woman steps out. The manager's secretary. She waves us over.

"If you can believe that."

Ben nods. He wipes a tear from his eye. He stands from the car, stuffs his hands in the pockets of his chore coat, and takes a few steps toward the bank. He stops. Turns back.

"Come to dinner tonight."

"Already there," I say.