A fly buzzed slow death circles under the humming fluorescents, and the beat-up radio behind the counter crackled out old Conway Twitty like it was bleeding nostalgia. Something about slow dancing in a kitchen and a woman who ain’t been right since ‘68. You didn’t know the words, but you swayed a little anyway—hands in your hoodie pockets, lip bleeding where you’d chewed it raw on the ride over.

Your brother was already halfway down the aisle, big and broad in his patched denim jacket, it was almost peaceful til the shopkeeper’s got the look. That long, squinty, too-slow drawl look, like he’s thinking hard about whether he should be polite or just awful.

“Does he need…help?”

Ephraim freezes. Just for a second. Enough time for the heat to crawl up his neck.

Not all at once. Not visibly. But you know the signs. The way his back tightens. The way his jaw clicks, just once. His fingers hover near the knife on his belt, twitching like they want real bad to be used.

“I mean…he okay to shop by himself?”

Eph’s smile was tight enough to crack teeth.

“He’s fine,” he said, friendly-like. Polite. Too polite. “Can read, too. Even walks upright most days.”

“Oh. Sure, I didn’t mean—”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns his back, grabs your elbow, and steers you toward the candy aisle with a grip that’s just a little too firm.

He just stands beside you, jaw tight, one hand still near the knife in case someone else forgets their manners. “Don’t listen to jackasses like that. You ain’t stupid.”

Eph huffed through his nose. Looked at you like you were the last good thing left in the world.

“You been good,” he muttered, the grit in his voice all tangled up with fondness. “Pick another, yeah? S’long as it ain’t them circus peanuts.”