I stumble out of the car, lungs burning as I scramble up the driveway toward my brother’s house. The door swings wide just as my boots hit the porch, and my brother’s broad frame suddenly fills the doorway.
His grips a sticker covered lunchbox and a thermos of coffee in one hand, his keys jingling in the other as I practically collide with him.
‘Whoa . . . what the . . . Elijah?’ my brother gasps. He drops his keys, the metal clattering against the wooden planks of the porch as he instinctively grabs my arm to steady me. I bounce of his rock-hard frame, my pulse drumming as I look up at him brokenly.
‘He has a picture,’ I babble incoherently, the words tripping over each other. ‘It was just there . . . I didn’t know . . . why is there . . .?’
My brother’s fingers tighten on my bicep as
