Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from The Archive, Vol. 95: Autumn 1982
Once again this idea, more than prayer, makes me wonder what holiness is.
And once again it is now that I toy most with the notion of hating him.
Dale is fifteen and plays left field for the J. V.'s. I, his brother, am thirteen and a late bloomer. I attend his games but sit high in the stands, and generally leave while he is in the shower. My walks home are filled with dreams of splintering bats and chalk dust rising in mushroom clouds above the baseball diamond.
Tonight, as always, Dale must have his light. No bigger than a Christmas tree bulb, its shine is very like moonlight. I experience shivers of an uneasy power because of it: although I have no aptitude for baseball and still lack pubic hair, I do not fear the night. In fact, unlike Dale, I prefer total darkness for sleep.
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