Leaving the house, I type a Facebook message to Lisa.

I type, ‘Morning!’

And delete it.

I type, ‘Morning.’

And delete it.

I think: fuck.

I begin unlocking my bike.

My brother calls.

My brother’s name is Harrison.

He’s twenty-one.

He lives in Brisbane.

My family and I call him Harry.

Or Bear.

I’m not sure why.

We just do.

Bear says, ‘Hey.’

And I say, ‘Hey, Bear.’

Bear says, ‘I just finished a shift. Been up for twenty-six hours.’

Bear just became a paramedic.

I say, ‘How was it?’

And Bear says, ‘Pretty intense. We got called to this park where this junkie was threatening to cut himself. His girlfriend was screaming at him. She said, “I’m keeping the money, and the blender.”’

My headache goes: ding, ding, ding.

I touch my temple and sort of massage it.

Bear says, ‘He was holding this kitchen knife. His girlfriend called him a pussy. She said, “You wouldn’t do it.” We told him, “Don’t do it.” He did it. He cut his wrist in front of everyone — like, down to the bone.’

I say, ‘Fuck.’

Bear says, ‘Pretty cool. I mean, that we got to treat him.’

We pause.

I say, ‘How was your twenty-first?’

‘Didn’t have one.’

‘Why?’

‘Too much going on, you know, with work and everything. Different priorities now, I guess.’

And I remember a game we used to play when we were driving around America back when we used to live in America.

We used to jump up and try to touch Dad’s head.

Like, the top of it.

We’d just run up and do it.

Didn’t really matter what he was doing.

If we were around Dad, we were doing it.

Dad used to take lots of photos on slide film.

They were good.

Like, really good.

Except when we jumped up and touched his head.

Especially when he had been setting up a shot in low light on the tripod and focusing for forty-five minutes waiting for ‘the magic hour’.

Dad would get a bad back sometimes.

So we stopped jumping up and touching his head.

Though I don’t think the bad back was from us.

Sometimes I get them too.

From being tall and skinny, I guess.

Not enough core strength.

Bear says, ‘I went out to dinner with Mum and Dad. Might go skydiving with Dad but probably not for a while. We’re both fairly busy.’

And I remember another thing.

That Dad hates American accents.

And on this trip up the West Coast, Bear saw this graffiti on a park bench, somewhere maybe near Oregon.

It said: RD THATS MY NAME.

He started saying that a lot.

In a thick Texan accent.

Dad would say, ‘Not far now kids, almost at the campground,’ and Bear would say, ‘RD, THAT’S MY NAME.’

There would be a sign that said our campground was five miles away.

And the sun would be setting in a way that was like in a movie or, later, like in one of Dad’s photos.

Mum and Dad would be holding hands.

Listening to Phil Collins or Supertramp in the front, just holding hands.

And I would poke Bear.

And Bear would kick my shin.

And Mum would look at us in the rear-view mirror.

And Bear would say, ‘RD, THAT’S MY NAME.’

He tells me he made nine hundred bucks last week.

He tells me this in a serious way.

He sounds grown up.

He sounds how I imagined being twenty-five would feel.

Bear says, ‘Hello?’

And I say, ‘Yeah?’

‘Where’d you go?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘Oh. I asked how your book was going?’

‘Okay.’

‘Got a job yet?’

‘Yeah, I start today. I’m working in a warehouse assembling KeepCups.’

Bear says, ‘I use one of those.’

And I say, ‘Maybe I can send you one for your birthday. We get a free one each month.’

‘I’ve already got one.’

‘But, like, a back up. One for the car, one for home.’

‘Oh, yeah, that could be cool.’

‘Okay, I’ll do that.’

Bear says, ‘Hey, I gotta go.’

And I say, ‘Okay, speak soon.’

Bear says, ‘Give me a call sometime.’

And he hangs up.

I look around.

Our house is the only one on the street where you can’t see the path to the front door because there are too many leaves and they’re all crumpled and muddy.

When I talk to my family, I think nostalgically about our past — but the past is never one memory, just lots of little ones from different times sort of cut up and spliced together.