I showed them Russ and me as boys, filthy at our grandparents’ place, two brothers who fought like animals and loved each other without ever once saying so.

I showed them their father holding each of them as newborns, that specific terrified tenderness of a big strong man with something tiny and new in his hands.

I told them stories — how their dad could throw a baseball through a barn door, how he sang badly and constantly, how he cried at dog movies and would deny it to your face.

Ollie studied a photo of Russ a long time and said, “I’m starting to not remember his voice,” and I told him that was okay, that I’d remember it for him and tell him about it as many times as he wanted, for as long as he wanted, forever if that’s what it took.