I stared at the screen, barely breathing. My brother’s cries softened into weak, exhausted sounds. He began sucking on his own hand, his eyelids fluttering.
Another vibration. “Where are you.”
My heart pounded. Every warning echoed in my head. I hesitated, looking down at my brother’s thin face, feeling the crushing weight of responsibility. Then I typed our address, each letter feeling heavier than the last.
When I pressed send, I closed my eyes and whispered a quiet prayer, asking for safety, forgiveness, and help all at once.
I did not know who was reading my message. I learned later that his name was Peter Lawson, a widower who lived alone in a quiet neighborhood on the other side of the city, a man whose house was large and silent and filled with memories he rarely allowed himself to touch. Years earlier, his wife had passed after a long illness, and since then he had buried himself in work, convincing himself that staying busy was the same as staying whole.
When he read my message, something shifted inside him. It reminded him of promises he had once made about kindness and presence, promises he had slowly abandoned. He did not overthink it. He grabbed his keys and left.