He stared at the humongous fish tank that severed the restaurant in two and wondered what the waiter’s reaction would be if he demanded the pale orange guy hovering near the plastic diver.

“Do you even hear what I’m saying,” Michael asked. “Cause I’ll tell you what Con, you’re running out of time and the answer’s sure as hell not in that tank.”

Connor wished the answer was in the tank, buried under fish shit and gravel. His older brother Mike meant well, but the conversation was going to result in nothing more than rows of neatly arranged sugar packets, tiny anthills of salt and a better understanding of contained aquatics.

Throughout their childhood, Mike had always kept a watchful eye on Con while their parents encased themselves in selfish bubbles that floated in opposite directions. By no means was he a surrogate father, but he was there without fail when it counted the most. And in turn, Connor could think of more than a few occasions when he kept Mike’s earth on its shaky axis.