He had known, or half-known, for six years that Mama was hiding something for me.

His hurry wasn’t grief.

It was hope that I’d donate the tin to the church rummage sale without ever looking inside.

We had never been close, Lonnie and I.

Six years apart, and a stepfather between us who had always seemed to favor my brother, though I could never have told you why at the time.

After we were grown we became the kind of siblings who exchange cards at Christmas and call on birthdays and have nothing much to say.

We were Mabrys, the both of us — Mama’s name, the name on the mailbox my whole childhood — but that was about all we still shared.