The county paper still runs the horoscopes on the back page of the local section. I don't read mine. I read his.
My brother Sterl's been gone two years now. Cancer, the fast kind. The midwife who delivered us both lives three blocks from the hospital where he died.
After practice I sit in my truck with the dome light on. The charger only works if I hold it just so, bent forward like I'm bowing to the cigarette lighter.
I check his sign, Sagittarius. It says something about new beginnings. I want to laugh. I want to call him and read it out loud the way I used to, both of us making fun of it.
But that's the thing. No one sees me sitting here, pressing a charger into a truck that's older than I am, reading a dead man's forecast.
I'm the coach. I'm supposed to have the answers, to run practice, to be the one who keeps going. And I do. Every day.
But under the dome light, I'm just the kid brother who still looks for signs in a newspaper that costs a dollar fifty.