Suckerpunch by David Hernandez

looked at Buster’s plump face, his dopey smile.
    It was a fluke, he said.
    What really happened to you? I blurted out.
    He closed the Time magazine and tossed it on the coffee table. I’m a fireman, he said. Was, I mean.
    Oh, I said.
    The roof caved and I fell down with it.
    The door to Dr. Kumar’s office opened and Enrique walked out carrying a brown paper bag. The bag reminded me of the lunches my mom would pack for us, our names felt-tipped across the brown paper. The one my brother carried now was blank. It could’ve belonged to anyone.
    You ready? Enrique said.
    I stood up and looked at the burned man. See you later, I said, even though I probably wouldn’t.
    He nodded and did this quick hand motion, a salute with two fingers against the bill of his baseball cap. It was all backward. I should’ve been the one saluting him.
    In the hallway, Enrique began to snicker.
    What’s so funny? I asked him.
    That guy looked like a circus sideshow.
    Don’t be a dick, I said.
    Am I right or am I right?
    Â 
    I woke up with Oliver’s bare feet beside my face. We’d slept on the same bed at the Best Western, our heads on opposite ends of the mattress like the dual profiles of the jack of spades. Quietly I climbed out and looked at Enrique and Ashley on the other bed. They had made up the night before and her arm was now flung across my brother’s chest, her green hair splayed on the pillow like the fronds of a palm tree.
    In the bathroom I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth and got dressed. I opened my walletand pulled out the folded piece of paper that had my dad’s address written in my mom’s neat handwriting.
    There was a knock on the bathroom door.
    It’s me, Enrique said.
    I opened the door and my brother’s eyes darted like a hunted animal.
    What’s wrong?
    My meds.
    What about them?
    I forgot to bring them.
    That was smart, I said.
    Enrique stepped into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet and cupped his hand underneath and lifted water to his mouth. He splashed water into his hair and raked it back with his fingers.
    You’ll be okay, I said. You took one before we left yesterday morning, right?
    He looked at me and said nothing.
    Are you kidding me? I said.
    I had other things on my mind.
    How do you feel now?
    I feel okay, he said, but it’ll probably hit me later on this afternoon.
    The last time I saw Enrique off his medication, a couple months after Dad left, he was curled up in his bed, facing the wall. He cried for hours, his body quaking underneath the blanket. Afterward, his face went rigid, his temper spiked. He grabbed a lamp and slammed it over and over against his desk until the lightbulb popped inside.
    I sat down on the toilet seat. Maybe we should drive home now, I suggested.
    No, he said. We’re already here.
    I don’t think it’s a good idea, Enrique.
    Where’s the pistol anyway?
    It’s in my backpack.
    He’s probably the reason I still need those pills in the first place, he said.
    I stared at the bathtub, the drain and black rubber stopper. I know, I said. Then I started crying like a damn baby.
    Hey, my brother said.
    I’m sorry I didn’t do anything.
    It’s okay, man.
    I should’ve helped you.
    You think you could’ve stopped him?
    I don’t know, I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I should’ve at least tried.
    You jumped on him that last time, he said. Surprised the shit out of me. Usually you just sit there like you’re watching a school play.
    I chuckled. I cried some more. That bastard, I said, sniffling.
    Let’s do this, okay?
    I stood and went to the sink to wash my face for the second time. I patted myself dry with one of the motel’s white towels hanging from the towel rack.
    Okay, I said.
    Â 
    They were all inside the Picklewagon waiting for me to get off the phone. Oliver honked the horn and I walked to the window and pulled back the