He knew that he had been savagely beaten about the head with some instrument that left those thin welts. An ear had been torn and there was blood on the hair above it. The hands, flung above the head, rested on the floor with the palms up and he could see that two of the fingernails were stained. The sight sickened him as he knelt beside his stepbrother and called his name. He reached for the heavy shoulders and tugged at them. He managed to get the torso to a sitting position, supporting the dead weight as best he could. He spoke again, his voice hoarse as he tried to shake the man awake. There was no response. The head rolled limply, and now, the sickness inside him turning coldly to fear, Jeff lowered the shoulders and put his ear hard against the shirt front. When he realized finally that the heart-beat he heard was his own he reached frantically for a wrist and dug his fingers into the warm flesh. He held his breath and tried again. Only then did he understand that there would never be a pulse.
