Brotherly Despair

The fluorescent hum of the laundromat was a familiar lullaby to Danny Bird, a low thrum against the gnawing silence that had descended since Leo vanished. He watched the indifferent spin of a load of whites, his own reflection a blurred, anxious silhouette against the glass. The street had taught him a lot of things – how to read a room, how to disappear in plain sight, how to make a dollar out of fifteen cents. It hadn't, however, prepared him for this hollow ache in his chest, this suffocating dread that felt like a physical weight. Leo, his kid brother, the one sliver of sunshine in the perpetual twilight of Danny’s existence, was gone.

He’d been gone for three days. Three days of frantic calls that went unanswered, three days of retracing Leo’s usual haunts, his usual impossibly optimistic routes. Each dead end was a fresh stab, each whispered rumor a fresh twist of the knife. Danny’s gut, usually a reliable compass, was spinning wildly, pointing him everywhere and nowhere. He’d seen the worst of the city, the back alleys where desperation festered, the shadows where deals went sour and lives were extinguished with casual brutality. But Leo wasn’t a part of that world. Leo was supposed to be the escape, the reason Danny kept fighting, the proof that not all of him was stained.

The guilt was a sour taste in his mouth, a constant companion. Had he been too hard on Leo lately? Too distant? He’d been so focused on building something, on finally clawing his way out of the mire, that maybe he’d neglected the one thing that truly mattered. Now, the possibility of that neglect being the very thing that led to Leo’s disappearance was a torment he couldn’t shake. He saw Leo’s wide, hopeful eyes in every flickering shadow, heard his easy laugh in the rustle of plastic bags.