Philip and Bill were brothers, sixteen and fifteen, skinny jeans and thick wool jumpers. Good friends, except at school, when the halls and locker rooms Phil inhabited were a world beyond Bill’s, one his high fives could not reach.
There was a game they played on the train home: Look, No Hands. They marked their victories on Phil’s bedroom wall, seven years of triumphs and crushing humiliations numbered in crayon and fountain pen. Bill was careful to ensure Phil never lost too many consecutive rounds. It was a fair handicap: Bill, after all, still had both his arms, thank God.