When Arthur finally spoke, the sharp executive edge had gone entirely out of his voice, and what was left underneath it was something I had not heard from my brother in a very long time, something uncertain and almost young.

“Julian?” he said.

“Julian.

Where are you?

My God.

It’s been nine years.”

“I know,” I said.

“I know how long it’s been.” And I did know, to the day, though I had never let myself count it out loud.