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Eran and Jamee were never the best of friends. Three years apart, they were practically never at the same stage of development. Eran rarely guided his little brother, and Jamee rarely followed after him.

It soon became evident to the Kristiansen couple that the siblings had opposite personalities and opposite interests.

Eran's teacher had given him a decade-old microscope kit. He was breaking his father's rule: 'After you turn twelve and you're playing a sport, you can have a microscope.'

His mother stood in the kitchen doing something with some gross green vegetable.

"Where's Dad?" the ten-year-old Eran asked his mother as he adjusted the microscope's box under his arm.

"Outside playing basketball with Jamee," she answered without looking up.

Eran went outside to find seven-year-old Jamee dribbling the child-sized ball like the guys on TV.

"Dad," Eran walked to his dad and displayed the box in his arms.

"What is that?"

"The microscope you wouldn't get me. My teacher gave it to me."

His dad crossed his arms and perseverated. "So we're doing karate, then?" His father had previously suggested the disciplined, calm sport for his nerdy son.

"I like aikido." Countering was more in his nature than attacking.

"Alright. Give it back, though. It's good you were honest, I'll buy you one after your second aikido class."

"I appreciate it," the 5th grader said awkwardly as he shuffled back to his room. Eran wasn't jealous that Jamee could do activities with their dad. At least not on the surface.

Eran continued with aikido. But for Jamee, after basketball was soccer, after soccer was football, after football was hockey. Then suddenly, it all stopped. Jamee was 13 when he found a new crowd. He suddenly started breaking curfew, lying about school, and ignoring his parents' interrogations... Eran watched silently, not understanding his younger brother's behaviour and thoughts. At 16 years old, Eran was only involved in the biology club and his aikido classes.

The next year was when disaster came.

Eran and his parents sat at the dinner table. Jamee's whereabouts were vaguely known.

The parents exchanged looks.

His mother started, "Eran, do you know where Jamee is?"

"No." Eran's answer was short; his mother should know he and Jamee rarely exchanged words.

"He's been skipping classes too. Last week he started a fight."

These were things Eran didn't know, wasn't surprised by, and wasn't concerned with.

His dad now spoke, "We're at work, so we want you, as Jamee's older brother, to look out for him. Encourage him to do the right thing and to straighten up. If he's planning on doing anything dangerous, tell us. We know you two aren't best buds, but you need to watch out for your little brother. Okay?"

Eran barely nodded. "Yes, sir."

At first, Eran tried taking away the cigarettes he found in Jamee's room. He threatened to report Jamee's every action to their parents. In an attempt to prevent a grounded Jamee from sneaking around, Eran even locked Jamee out of the house if he disappeared after school.

Still, Jamee never listened to Eran and continued to act disrespectfully and recklessly.

Eran stood in the living room, glaring at his parents who were sitting tiredly on the sofa. "You want me to babysit Jamee? I can't, I have a conference."

His dad furrowed his brow. "A what?"

"A conference," Eran said through his teeth. "The biology club is going to a biology conference."

"If it's a club thing, you can skip it," his father said, still frowning. "We need you to watch Jamee, Eran."

"Why? He's just going to do what he wants anyway. He's not a toddler and I can't control him any more than you can."

His father stared at Eran, knowing his son was right.

His mother sighed. "But we need to at least try. We can't give up on him."

The next time, Eran needed to participate in an academic competition cities away; if his team won the first round, it would be an overnight trip. Maybe because they felt guilty, or maybe because they would both be home, his parents allowed him to go.

When Eran returned, Jamee was on parental house arrest. Hoping video games and such would be enough, they permitted Jamee's friends to come over.

But during the week, when their parents were working, Jamee would only come home right before their parents returned. All he needed was enough time to shower and wash away any remnants of where he'd been or what he'd been doing.

Eran sat at his bedroom's desk studying when he heard the front door rattle then slam open. Jamee was home. The door slammed shut. There was a clatter.

Curious and wondering—or hoping—that it was actually Jamee making a commotion, Eran cautiously peered around the frame of his bedroom door. Jamee's shoes, the family's umbrellas, and a decorative wicker bowl were splayed out across the foyer floor.

Irritated by his drunken sibling, Eran closed his door and went back to studying. His last year was around the corner; Eran didn't have time to babysit a teenager.

Consequently, he and Jamee made a silent pact: Whatever Jamee does, Eran acts like he didn't see a thing.

"You're an idiot," Eran told his brother a day he was forced to skip an important club meeting. "Can't you realize you're starting to ruin your life? Don't you realize you're ruining mine?"

And then it happened.

As usual, Eran heard Jamee come home at the proper time, and then leave the house minutes later. Unlike usual, Jamee didn't show up by the time their parents got home.

Eran descended the staircase to meet his mother who was leaning against the foyer wall, taking off her heels.

"Jamee's not here."

"Did he come home?"

"Yeah."

His mother sighed and walked into the kitchen. "Is he acting up again?"

Assuming Jamee was indeed, Eran returned to his room.

Jamee never came home that night.

The next morning was a Saturday; everyone was home. Except Jamee.

About mid-afternoon, his father was talking to either the television or the magazine in his hands, his mother commenting on his comments while doing something in the kitchen, and Eran sat in his room playing around with some nerdy software on the computer while listening to the sounds in the background.

The doorbell rang.

His mother dropped whatever dish or pan she'd been holding onto the counter."It must be Jamee," she said as she made her way to the door.

Eran heard an unfamiliar voice. He got up and peeked out of his room towards the foyer, simultaneously realizing Jamee wouldn't have needed to ring the doorbell.

He heard his mother sigh, "Oh god, did he get arrested again?"

His father too came out of the living room.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kristiansen," the police officer greeted in a familiar tone. Familiar but deliberate.

Thinking, like his parents, that Jamee had been arrested, Eran began to go back to his room.

"Ah... Maybe we should sit down?"

"Sit down?" His mother started. "We'll just go to the hospital—"

Eran stopped. He wondered why a hospital. He reasoned, perhaps Jamee got hurt, had an accident, got alcohol poisoning or overdosed on something...

"Mrs. Kristiansen," the officer said more firmly. "Let's take a seat."

The three went into the living room and closed the double doors, muffling their voices from Eran's ears. Suddenly, the voices stopped.

Eran moved down further on the stairs until he could hear the officer speaking again.

"...formality's sake, we need you to come to S hospital..."

After a deep breath, the officer finished, "to identify the body."

Eran's knees gave out and he dropped on the stairs. Immobilized and shocked, he thought perhaps he misheard.

It was then that he heard his mother wail and his father curse.

The officer continued his lines, "When you're ready, please come outside and we will take you to him."

The living room door opened and the officer immediately spotted Eran, then looked away. "Please bring the brother as well..."

In the first hours of the day, in the next city over, Jamee and his friends had been racing cars. At the bridge, Jamee's car spun out and hit the weak guard rail. The cause of death was drowning. It was several hours until the car was found at the bottom of the murky river and Jamee's body was retrieved. Not until he was pronounced dead by the EMTs did the friends or police notify the Kristiansens. As if everyone at the scene was in denial.

At the funeral, Eran was silent. He knew he looked tired and unhappy. He'd refused to see the body and no one pressed him.

Every one of Jamee's friends who'd been at the scene before, during, and after the accident came with their parents. The teens and their parents apologized and expressed condolences.

Everyone who knew about the accident thought that Jamee's parents would harbor hostility towards those families, even if they pasted on thankful faces. But Eran's parents were sincere in their words, "Up to now, we know you've had a hard time too." The Kristiansens weren't the only family with a problem child, although they were the only family who'd lost that precious child. Eran knew his parents didn't blame any one of those teenagers or parents. Yet he thought, perhaps the person they blamed was him.

Nights later, Eran overheard his parents talking at the kitchen table.

"You're wondering too, aren't you?" his mother asked his father.

There was no response.

"Jerald, we have to ask him." Her tone carried more conviction.

"Are you crazy? How can we ask him something like that?"

"But you're curious too, aren't you? I'm going insane wondering whether he knew or not."

"And what if he knew?" was his father's curt reply.

There was no answer.

He continued. "Whether he knew or not, he probably already feels guilty. Em, you cannot ask him; it would only make things worse. Are you going to blame him?—"

"Don't talk like that!" his mother shot back in a whispered yell.

There was yet another silence.

"And it doesn't even matter anyway. Jamee's gone."

"Oh, Jamee!" his mother lamented. "It's our fault. We should have been here! We shouldn't have left it all on Eran."

"It's impossible," his father said frankly. "There's no way we could have unless one of us quit our jobs."

Silence.

His mother spoke sadly, her volume lowered once again, "Do you think Eran hates us?"

Silence.

His father responded somberly, "We lost two sons."

Eran was constantly thinking what would have prevented Jamee's death. If he had cared? If he had said something? If he had threatened to tell? If he had made more of an effort to get along with his brother from the beginning? Those questions and subsequent guilt would continue to plague him for years.