ABSTRACT
My brother used to tell me I was the Devil. This would be while he was torturing me—not beating me up exactly, since he didn’t want to hurt his knuckles and maybe miss a game. But he’d pounce and drag me to the floor and pin my shoulders with his knees. Then he’d snap his fingers against my nose, or drool spit in my face while I bucked and jerked my head, or singe my hair with matches. He was ten, I was seven. Already he had enormous strength. I never thought of Brian as a kid. He’d loom above me with that flame-red Irish hair, his blue eyes dancing wickedly, and he was brute and cruel as any man. There are boys in Ireland now throwing pipe bombs and torching cars. That was Brian, a terrorist before his time. And I was his mortal enemy.
