PHIL

I PARK THE Death Van in our dark driveway. As anticipated, John waits in the kitchen, hands folded on the table. He is heavier and younger than our father, but they bear an uncanny resemblance. It’s their eyes, the fullness and warmth within them.

I sit down at the table across from him, resigned to my fate.

“What the hell did you do, Phil?”

“Oh, of course. For I must have done something.”

“Are you saying you didn’t?”

I shake my throbbing head. “I beat a fellow student senseless. Surely Officer Newton informed you. Of course I did something.”

“Why is it ‘of course’ with you?” John slams a palm on the table, and now I see the warmth in his eyes spill over, wetting his red cheeks. “Phil. Why do you think violence is an inevitability? Who taught you that? We never, ever did.”

“You know what I’m like, John.”

“I do know,” he says, staring me down. “You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, Phil. Ever, and before I moved into the basement I studied at an Ivy League school. If you’re not outthinking this, this habit, that’s your own choice.”

I think of all our points of reference. “You know how it is with some creatures. Goblins are sneaky, orcs brutal. The Balrog can only ever be fire and hatred.”

He takes my hand. “You’re not a fantasy creature, Phil. You’re here, and you’re my brother, and you deserve to give yourself a fucking chance.”

These are altogether too similar to the words Kalyn gave me; I recoil from them. An ache forms in my chest, and maybe it is almost like feeling. How can people ever tell?

“Why? Why do I deserve that?”

John sighs. “Every single person on the planet deserves that, man.”

I swallow. “Well, alas, for I have already lost my chance to partake in this story.”

“Don’t write yourself out. Where’s Gus? Where’s Kalyn?”

“On some noble quest, I imagine. Playing the heroes while I revert to an NPC.”

He lifts up his hands. “Then change it. Do something, Phil.”

“As though it’s easy,” I grumble. “You can’t even leave the house.”

“It’s not me you’re mad at. But nice try. How can you help Gus and Kalyn?”

“They sent me home. They’re the leads in the play I no longer have a part in.”

John taps his head. “What you’re lacking in Charisma and Constitution, you make up for with Intelligence. You want life to come together in a story? I challenge you to pick a new role. How can you, Phil Wheeler, apathetic nerd and decent friend—”

“I’m not—”

“—semidecent friend: How can you help move the plot forward?”

I don’t know if I’m capable of admiring my brother. Over the years, he has pulled my hands away from burners, he has held me back from knives. I have bitten his forearms, insulted his lifestyle, dismissed him as a dungeon dweller. But John is nothing if not a solid DM, a remarkable strategist. Perhaps, with his aid, there is a role yet to play.

“Mayhaps you can help me think of something.” The gears within me start whirring. My eldest brother cuffs my ear with his hand, smiling through unfounded tears.

Maybe there is poetry in this.