Late March 1978: Bayport, MA

The casts had finally come off, to Joe's relief. He'd been hobbling around on crutches for the last week, stretching and getting re-adjusted to walking and to using his arm and hand again. He'd managed most of today so far, but it'd been painful, tentative, sore, and limping; the specialists in Boston had warned him not to get optimistic. They'd wanted to put him in a wheelchair, but Joe wasn't having it. Right now, just being able to use the shower on his own — without the home-nurse's help and a ton of plastic wrap protecting the casts — had been unexpected pleasure.

The ordeal hadn't ended. At first, it'd been a relief to get home; Joe had broken down crying at the sight of the house. But all his friends — to them, Joe had been through something interesting, mysterious and weird: Mardi Gras, voodoo, serial killers. Their interest turned uncomfortably silent when Joe wouldn't talk about it…and then confused and offended when Frank had backed Joe up and made them back off. Aunt Gertrude had adopted the same hushed, gentle tones Dad used, especially after she'd caught sight of Joe's back when Frank had been helping him change shirts and bandages. And Dad…

…gentle talk about Joe changing his plans, that maybe being a detective wouldn't suit, to consider something less strenuous, more suited to his abilities now, less dangerous. As if Dad had any ideas on what Joe would do now. The only other thing Joe had thought about had maybe been music…and now, between his ruined voice and shattered hand…

Then there were the nightmares, the night terrors, the flashbacks that left him sweating and shaking. Joe refused all medications, instead tried to just deal with it, to pretend nothing was wrong. He was tired of the arguments, the looks, the whispers.

A packet had arrived in the mail that morning: catalogs and application forms for SFSU, with letters from Joshua and Mar saying only to let them know if Frank and Joe chose other schools. When Dad had gone to pay the last tuition bill from Bayport Community, he'd been informed the bill had already been paid. Dad had been giving his sons odd, uncertain stares since.

"Hey."

Joe had been dozing on the couch. He startled awake to see Frank standing over him.

"Come on," Frank said. He was wearing his wetsuit. "We're getting out of here." With that, Frank bullied him up off the couch and to the van. Joe caught sight of Frank's surfboard in the back and scowled, but Frank said nothing, jerking the van into drive and away from the house as if he had a personal vendetta against the building.

But when Frank pulled into the gravel parking lot of one of the shore-points, Joe'd had enough. "You're going to surf?" The day was overcast, a typical chilly March day, maybe in the low 50s. The water would be even colder.

Frank only got out, pulled his board and towels from the back, then yanked the passenger side door open. Waiting.

It was obvious that Frank was going to stand there until Joe got out. "I want to know what happened to my brother," Joe positioned the crutches and slid out, "and who this monster is that's replaced him."

"I'm sick of listening to Dad," Frank said, and slammed the van door closed.

The gravel was uncertain, but attempting to walk on sand, even with the help of the crutches, was an ordeal. Joe only grit his teeth and followed Frank out — Frank had stopped about twenty yards out on the beach, tossed his surfboard and the towels a few feet away, and stood scowling, waiting for Joe to catch up.

"You could tell me what's going on," Joe rasped.

Frank nodded at the crutches. "Can you stand without those?"

An odd question. Joe eyed his brother, then, in answer, tossed the crutches over by Frank's surfboard. Frank nodded…

…then attacked.

Not full force, not full speed, but enough to surprise Joe into missing the block and follow-up turn. Frank swept Joe's legs out from under him, dumping him to the sand, but backed off and waited as Joe struggled back to his feet — and this time, Joe got his balance and stance set before his brother attacked again.

Again. And again. Frank stayed on the attack, letting Joe stand and defend: beginner's karate kata, simple and basic — strike, block, turn, everything half-speed, half-force. Even then, it was hard for Joe to keep up, hard to remember the sequence and let his body relax into the moves, even when Frank started murmuring the count and sequence under his breath. Everything had tensed up, and his balance was non-existent, but Joe kept at it, doing his damnedest to knock his brother into the sand, but Frank dumped him again and again, and finally Joe could not get up, could only stay sprawled on the sand, panting.

"Yield," Joe managed, from clenched teeth.

Frank snagged Joe's crutches up from the sand, came back over and dropped them by Joe's side. "You're going to have to get better than that," Frank said, as he kicked off his sneakers. "Or Mar's going to have both our hides."

Mar had taught karate at the Y when she and Kris had lived in Bayport. "You're talking like you've decided already."

No answer. Frank grabbed his surfboard and headed towards the water.

Joe managed to roll to his side, started to reach for his crutches, then struggled up to sit instead. Despite the chilly day, he was sweating, every muscle aching, his legs and left arm sore and hurting. Joe watched the ocean for a while. His brother wasn't surfing; the water was too choppy, the waves only swells. Frank had stopped a ways out, just past the breakers, to sit straddled on his board, watching the horizon.

Joe breathed out, long, tired, his hands flat against the sand, letting his exhaustion and the surf's rhythm carry him into meditative state. Then, on impulse, he breathed into a basic magic exercise that Kris had shown him while he'd been in the hospital, something to help keep him distracted from the pain and boredom of hospital routine: breathe, focus…center, ground, reach.

The entire beach thrummed. Caught between sand, water, sky, Joe let himself go, pulling the rhythm and sound into himself, one slow breath at a time…

Presence trembled nearby, breaking his concentration. Joe blinked up; his vision had an odd golden haze. The sun was much lower, to the west. Frank stood toweling his hair dry.

"Better damp that," Frank said. "I don't want someone finding religion out here because they spot you."

Joe blinked again. His hand was surrounded by a faint gold glow. He closed his eyes, imagined the energy draining back into the sand.

"Better. Let's get out of here before Dad decides I've committed fratricide and calls out the search hounds." Frank helped Joe stand — Joe's muscles had stiffened from sitting so long, and he clenched his jaw against the rush of feeling and pain — and handed him the crutches. "C'mon."

"Frank."

Frank stopped, his back to his brother. "I'm sick of Dad. I'm sick of hearing how he talks to you. And how he talks to me. I'm still to blame. I'm the one who left you. I'm the one who ran."

"No!"

"Tell that to Dad." Fierce, angry. "So if they're offering me a place to go where I don't have to listen to it day in and day out, then yeah. I'm taking it."

"Is that why you did that?" Joe nodded at the sand, scuffed and trampled from the kata session. "Because you're mad at me?"

Frank's gaze was steady. "Mar's suggestion. I called her last night. I figured falling on sand would be better than the backyard. And you know if we'd done that at home, Aunt Gertrude'd turn the hose on us."

"At least," Joe said, with a slight grin.

Frank didn't return it, only helped Joe maneuver through the sand and back to the van. Uncomfortable, uncertain, painful silence stretched through the drive home, until they pulled into the driveway. Then, as Frank slid out of the van, "No. I'm not mad at you." So quiet, Joe barely heard it.

Joe struggled out, caught up before Frank reached the house. "Good. Because I'm not mad at you."

Frank turned.

Joe swallowed hard; his gut clenched. Another talk that he'd been dreading. "Frank — I —" Joe stopped, closed his eyes. Remembered terror trembled under his voice. "Thatcher took me down — something magic. I couldn't move. I was praying you'd stay down. That you'd run. If they'd caught you…you'd be dead. They'd've been finding our bodies in those barrels." Joe brought his left hand, twisted and aching, between their faces. "You really think I'd've wanted to watch them do this to you?"

Frank looked away.

Now Joe gripped Frank's shoulder, brother to brother. "Brother…you didn't leave me. You went to get help to save me." He felt his mouth quirk. "Who are you going to believe? Our idiot father who wasn't even there…or your own brother?"

Finally, Frank smiled, if sadly. "When'd you learn how to make speeches?"

"You've been a bad influence. And I'm glad you've decided. Because I already told Joshua yes."

The smile turned into a laugh. Frank led the way up the front walk, holding the screen door open for Joe.

Joe stopped him on the threshold. "Team?"

His brother returned the shoulder-grip. "Team."