212 586 1018. I’m surprised I still know that number. It’s been what, 18 years? Yeah, 18 years. 18 years since I ran. 18 years since I yelled. Since I left. Since I gave up. 18 years since I’ve forgotten. Worst part is that in those years I never even wanted to call my childhood home. I always think it would feel weird. I thought when my brother picks up the phone, he won’t even recognize the guy on the other end. Or maybe he will recognize it, but not as his brother. As the abandoner. As the loser. As the most heartless brother he once knew. The last thing you told me is “You’re going to end up in prison one day. One day, just you wait. I’ll say I told you so. I can’t wait.” Well, he was right. It took a while but he was right. I barely remember what I did to get in here. I know it was something stupid though. He’ll laugh at me. But what could I do? I can’t run. I can’t hide. I can’t stomp off like the last time I got in trouble. I just have to sit here, and beg for someone to help me. So I dial. 212 586 1018. And it just starts ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing. All the while I just think. He’s gonna hang up, he’s not going to recognize me, he will, and he’ll tell me I had this coming, he’ll tell me I told you so. Finally, it stops ringing. 

“Hello?”… There it is. That voice. The voice of my childhood, of my innocence, for the best part of me, somehow that one word took me back to when the time was simpler, where I had a family who cared about me, where I had a brother who would do anything for me, and I would do anything for him. I snap myself back to reality, 

“hey, … it’s me. I- uh, I messed up, I’m at the police station. Look I know it’s been awhile-” 

“Stop talking.” he said “I’ll call someone, I’ll be down there in 20 minutes.”

“Thanks,” I said. 

“No problem,” he said. “It’s what brothers do.”