Peter swung the car lazily onto an exit for the city, and Emma resisted the urge to remind him of her sister’s address; he seemed so pleased at the challenge of finding it on his own, apparently reluctant to refer to the needlessly large pile of maps in the back.The sun was low in the sky ahead, draping the trees in honey-colored light, and the roads were busy with commuters returning home after work. At a red light Peter looked at her sideways.“Do you ever wonder what he would’ve been like?”Emma yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Who?”“Your brother.”“Oh,” she said, sitting up. “I don’t know. Not really.”This, of course, wasn’t the least bit true; she had, ever since she found out about him, been pondering that very question. And what she’d come up with was a wide assortment of theories and possibilities, a hypothetical resume that accounted for everything from what kinds of foods he would have hated as a baby right on up to what his grade point average might have been this year.
