The last time I saw my brother, Leo, he was standing on the roof of our father’s bait shop, wearing a tweed jacket and a pair of pink swimming goggles.
For a while, postcards arrived. From a vortex in Arizona. From a ghost town in Nevada where the population was listed as “one coyote.” From a commune in Oregon that made its own currency out of beaver teeth. Each card ended the same way: The truth is closer than you think. Keep looking. o 39-brother where art thou
“Does it have a name?” he asked.