Peter had fixed harder things before breakfast, but that morning his hands kept slowing whenever his thoughts wandered back to Aaron.
His younger brother had been dead for three years.
A heart attack at thirty-five had taken him on an ordinary morning, the kind that began with coffee, a shower, and plans for the weekend.
By nightfall, Peter was standing beneath the soft lights of a funeral home, staring at Aaron in a dark suit he would have hated.
