Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre Nine Lucky felt rooted in place, like he couldn’t move. And maybe that was good because his first instinct was to run away from this—to just turn around and walk out the door. He was good at running—he’d been doing it all his life. But right now, his body wouldn’t let him. He had to face his brother, ready or not. Mike’s Adam’s apple shifted as he swallowed, making him look uncomfortable, upset. At the same time Lucky watched his brother’s expression, he tried to take in the ways he’d changed, grown up, aged. Like Lucky, he was bigger than he’d been as a young man, his shoulders broader. He appeared strong, healthy—although now he possessed small creases around his eyes. He looked, at the moment, tired. He sensed Mike taking in the same with him—the changes. The ink, the muscles. And Lucky felt strange to realize he’d gotten a little taller, and more muscular, than his big brother.
