Sunday's are my only day off, and I usually sleep them away. Steve usually goes in—a tradeoff for not having to work nights—and leaves my younger brother and I alone in the apartment. Some days I don't even see Mike. Sometimes we are awkwardly polite. Never are we comfortable.

When I came out of my room that Sunday Mike was painting. Painting and drawing and sketching. Steve had been so elated that he'd been willing to do art again he'd run out and spent half his paycheck on art supplies, and our younger brother had practically attacked them. He'd covered the dull looking apartment with pieces of every imaginable shape, size and medium; dark charcoal monsters, soft pastel flowers, intensely colored sunrises and sunsets. The walls of our room were covered, the living room boasted a variety of paintings, and Mike was furiously working on covering Steve's walls and the dining area. His color choices were often jarring, as were his juxtapositions. It was one of the things that had made my father crazy and my mother so proud. Steve had somehow talked Mike into visiting with the art teacher, and the moment he had set foot in the room she was calling and asking us if we understood just how talented our younger brother was.

I envied my brothers at times, not only for their relationship, but for their education. They could talk about art fluently, whereas I went by what I liked with no technical lexicon. Steve had been a double major of art history and management in college and had hoped to work his way to curator at the Smithsonian, where he had been working as an assistant to the director of modern art. But several months into starting we had discovered what my father had been doing to Mike in Philadelphia, and Steve could no longer live on twenty-five thousand a year. But it was more than that; he'd told me how he suddenly felt so much guilt he didn't know how to bear it, that his only outlet was to take a job at protecting the innocent. So he'd applied to the academy and quickly been accepted, and had just begun making rounds in the city when I decided to leave school. Not really decided—my father had cut us off when we took Mike from the house on Christmas day, and I knew that Steve was going to need help as he went to court to fight for custody of our younger brother. Technically we could have been accused of kidnapping, for removing Mike from the home of his legal guardian, but when he broke into Steve's old apartment he'd been arrested. During the time he was in prison he wrote letters almost constantly to Steve, who put them aside without a word to Mike or me. We had cut a deal with my father: he signed himself into a state mental institution and remained there indefinitely, and Steve obtained custody of our younger brother.

We hadn't heard from my father since.

I went to the coffee maker and began spooning out coffee grounds into the filter, pouring in water for half a pot. Mike looked up at me when I passed and I nodded to him, but we didn't say anything. I watched him bent over the table, his shoulder blades poking through his t-shirt.

"Did you have breakfast?" I asked. Mike stiffened and turned to look at me.

"I had some milk."

I looked at the clock. Almost one.

"Lunch?"

Mike bit his lip and shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"All you had is milk, and you're not hungry."

My younger brother lowered his eyes. "I'll have something later."

The coffee began to perk. I ran a hand through my hair.

"What do we have? I'll make something."

Mike didn't say anything as I opened the refrigerator and found a packet of American cheese. There was a loaf of white bread on the counter, and butter left in the dish.

"You want grilled cheese?"

I knew he didn't. I could see it in his face, him thinking as quickly as possible as to how he could get around eating without setting me off. And I suddenly felt sorry. I didn't want him to be afraid of me.

"Mike," I said, as gently as I could, lamenting that I couldn't sound more like Steve, "I know you don't like to eat. But you have to gain weight. It's not an option. You told us you would."

"I'm trying," he said softly, clenching his hands into fists. "Chris, please. I know that you get angry at me, and you have every right to be. But I really am trying. I just get…" he looked away.

"Scared," I finished for him. "I know, Mike. But what scares you more…eating or going to Ron's?"

My younger brother looked at me sharply. Steve and I were always careful not to mention that he could actually be taken away from us. But that was the truth, and it was time we all faced it.

"I'll make you a sandwich, and you eat what you can of it."

Mike hesitated a moment, then nodded and went back to his drawing. I watched his hand steady as he moved it across the paper, then found the frying pan beneath the sink and rinsed it out before setting it on the stove.

I was turning over the second sandwich when Mike set the charcoal he'd been using down and sighed.

"Something wrong?" I asked. He shook his head and stood up, backing away from his drawing.

"I just get frustrated," he mumbled.

"With what?"

"My ideas."

"How come?"

Mike shrugged and looked back at the paper. I scooped the sandwiches onto a plate, turned the stove off, and looked over his shoulder.

The paper was black, except for a sliver of white on the left side, where a man's silhouette had been colored in. On the floor directly in front of the man was his shadow, also in silhouette, but enlarged. I felt a creepy sense of fear come over me, realizing who that shadow was and what Mike had seen in that pitch black room.

"Oh Mike…" I said, surprised to hear a catch in my voice.

"I keep trying to get rid of him," my younger brother whispered, "but he's all I think about. Even this," he gestured to the pieces strewn around the living room, "I just keep thinking that he'd hate it. He hated all of my work. Do you remember how I'd sit downstairs for hours, after everyone had gone to bed, trying to get things right, and he always hated it…"

I touched his shoulder. I hadn't touched him since the hospital but I knew he needed it. And I wanted him to feel me there, feel me with him, know that he was safe. Mike was more afraid of feeling his feelings than he was of anything else.

"Some nights I'd put the lights out hoping he wouldn't notice me. And then I'd hear him on the stairs and I'd see him in the hall light," he gestured to the picture, his bottom lip trembling, "like that."

I squeezed his shoulder gently. Mike leaned toward me without getting too close.

"Why not, instead of thinking of what Dad would say, think of what Mom would have."

He looked at me, surprised. Another taboo subject: my mother.

"She always loved your stuff. She was proud of you. Think of her looking over your shoulder instead."

Mike smiled suddenly. "Len said that."

"Well good. He's doing something."

My younger brother looked away. I saw a flush creeping up from his neck and felt the moment of connection end. Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut?

"Come on. Clear the table off and eat. It'll get cold."

I walked back into the kitchen and pulled an extra plate down, then poured myself a cup of coffee. But it wasn't until I walked back to the table that Mike began to move.

Mike had a nightmare that night.

I awoke confused, sure I'd heard a shout, and then the sound of my younger brother's sobs hit me through the wall. I slept in Steve's old room now, and Steve slept in the bed that used to be mine. Mike needed someone in the room with him at night and I was never home; besides, Steve was much better at comforting our younger brother than I was.

Almost immediately after Mike started crying I heard the sound of Steve's voice. The words were indistinguishable, but the sound was low and soothing, even to me in the next room.

I tucked my pillow under my chin and listened, imagining Mike balled up tightly on the bed while Steve sat close to him, touching his back or hair as he talked. Even when I had stayed with Mike he'd had nightmares, but I was uncertain of what to do with him afterward. He'd usually assure me he was fine, and I couldn't get anymore out of him. It wasn't until Ron that Mike had woke up sobbing, and there wasn't anything we could do to make his fears of getting sent away better. Ron triggered a lot of memories of my father that I was sure overwhelmed Mike at times. I thought of my younger brother's picture and wondered if he'd told Steve about it. Even if he hadn't, it wasn't hard to deduce what Mike had been thinking about as he drew. My father was never far from Mike's mind, and this was not only a fact but a danger Steve and I were very much aware of.

What Mike didn't know is he wasn't the only one who hated our father.

He knew Steve and I did after finding him. He'd been surprised, half-convinced that we would side with his abuser and abandon him, but after we'd stayed by him in the hospital in Philadelphia he'd gradually grown to trust that we meant to help. Mike had been so small back then, even lighter than he was now, and his face had been bruised from a recent beating. He wouldn't let us touch him, even hold his hand, but he looked panicky if we left the room or tried to question him as to what had been going on. He gave us a general idea—not that it was hard to deduce—but no details, and whenever we tried to push him toward them he'd shut down or begin to tremble and we'd back down. That was why things had gotten so bad—Steve and I were always backing down. On eating, on sleeping, on talking. We'd even backed down on making him go to the hospital when he'd tried to jump from the car coming home from his friend's funeral. We should have signed him in that day, no matter what he said. We could have stayed by him and visited him, anything to have avoided his second, and almost fatal attempt.

Mike would never know how much we regretted, I thought, listening to my brother's sobs, slow and quiet, the same way he would never understand how much Steve and I cared about him. And the same way he didn't know that I too, hated our father before knowing what he had done to Mike.

It isn't that I don't want to stay with you, kid.

I rolled onto my back, pulling the pillow on top of me. More than anything—not calling not writing not demanding to talk to him—I hated myself for leaving. More than anything I wished I'd stayed in Philadelphia for school. Mike never would have been abused. I never would have let him be abused. I would have gotten our things together and driven him straight to Washington, and to Steve, the day my father raised his hand to him. I would have gotten between Mike and my father. But I never, ever, would have let anything happen to him.

I know, Christian. I've known all along.

I shivered. Listened for Mike but only heard Steve. Hoped my younger brother would get back to sleep. Pictured the door opening to reveal my father's shadow, enlarged by the hall light until it was wide enough to cover us all.