When he shuts down and refuses to care and share, it isn't a conscious decision. It isn't a plea to keep asking until he answers. It isn't a trick. It's just conditioning. The way a child flinches at the sound of angry voice. The way a dog cowers at the site of rolled up newspaper. When he feels bad or angry or when his feelings have been hurt, he is quick to dismiss it because he believes he's stepped on territory into which he wasn't invited and isn't welcome. He believes that somehow the universe will make him pay for entertaining the thought. He believes it will be worse if he answers the questions, are you alright? Do we need to talk about this? He believes that the tenuousness of the grasp he has on the paltry list of what he wants is normal. He already feels like his tiny pile of wishes is a lot to ask. He thinks that asking for more (like his family together not two out of three, like a safe place to sleep that is the same every night, like having someone who always waves his banner) is selfish.

When Sam pumps his chest full of rock salt and almost pumps his brain full of iron rounds, he is quick to forgive him. He was hoping it was all out possession and none of it was true, but hey, that's alright, he can explain it away just as easily. He is quick to make himself understand. He is quick to tell himself it was the crazy ghost doctor who amplified Sam's normal, understandable, reasonable irritations with him into the homicidal rage that nearly killed him. Hey, who hasn't gotten irrationally angry and nearly lost it and torn up the place over a little spilt coffee or lost football wager or careless comment, ha ha ha, right? He said he didn't mean it.

He can let Sam pick out the rock salt, tape up his ribs, run for dinner. He can accept his brother's cheeseburger and bag of m&m's apology. The truth is he revels in it like it's actually a treat, delights in the sheer gift of Sam remembering the way he likes things. He doesn't understand that the faint lack of gravity in stomach isn't necessary, isn't right, isn't a way to live, because it is there so constantly he only sometimes notices it. He berates himself silently, for reasons he doesn't understand, that it makes him so happy and full that he could cry when his brother does these things. He thinks the swell of his happiness is gluttonous and a character flaw.

So he basks in a glow of what he thinks is happiness when they share a meal under the same dingy roof. He feels special when he gets to pick the music without an argument. He feels loved when Sam gives a half assed attempt to start a conversation about the rack on the girl at the motel reception desk, even if Sam can't keep it up and it goes nowhere. When he starts to feel desperate he makes sure the feeling doesn't linger, he pushes it aside because he will not be made to examine it. He will not make himself feel pathetic - weak, selfish, arrogant, sure - but not pathetic. He will not consider what it means that he feels a bit threatened when his father finally calls. He will not let himself feel like maybe Dad should stay away a little longer. He will not let himself be a bit afraid that when Dad comes back, Sam will go. Instead he will live in a state of possibility - Sam is back and Dad will be and eventually they will be whole.

He will starve and think he is feasting when he comes across crumbs.