Three Weeks With My Brother by Nicholas Sparks, Micah Sparks

argue anymore. They’d put the past behind them more successfully than most, and seemed to be exactly what the other one needed.
    To that point, they’d lived a life of sacrifice, and I think that united them as well. Neither, after all, was living the life of their dreams. My dad wanted a life with less pressure and fewer financial worries; while he didn’t desire great wealth, he was frequently discouraged by the daily struggle of keeping the family afloat. Nor could he envision any change in the future, and that weighed on him as well. My mom was no different. Once I found her crying in the bedroom, and the discovery terrified me. It was so unlike her that I began to tear up as well, and my mom pulled me close.
    “I was just thinking how nice it would be to live in the country with horses like I did when I was little,” she said. “Maybe with a little house, where we could go riding on the weekends . . . it would just be so wonderful. I wish we would have been able to give that kind of life to you kids.”
    Dreams are always crushing when they don’t come true. But it’s the simple dreams that are often the most painful because they seem so personal, so reasonable, so attainable . You’re always close enough to touch, but never quite close enough to hold, and it’s enough to break your heart.
    As for Micah and me, our lives over the next four years fell into a relatively distinct pattern. My brother continued to spread his wings and found new friends easily. My sister made good friends as well, and one of them quickly became like a sister to her. I, on the other hand, had less luck in maintaining friendships, not because there was anything wrong with me per se (at least I like to think so) but rather because of simple bad luck.
    My best friend in third grade was Tim; in the fourth grade, he transferred to the parochial school and our paths seldom crossed again. My best friend in fourth grade was Andy; in the fifth grade, he transferred to the parochial school as well, and I didn’t see him again either. In fifth grade, my best friend was Warren; in the sixth grade, he moved to Australia. In sixth grade, my best friend was Kevin; when we went off to middle school the following year, we never had a single class together.
    My brother, on the other hand, was much more fortunate, and the friendships he made grew only stronger over the years. None of the kids ever moved away, none ever transferred to a different school. Like Micah, his friends tended to be adventurous, and afternoons and weekends were spent either in the fields near our house, or at the American River a few miles away.
    Meanwhile, I began to find more and more pleasure in the solitary act of reading. Because we couldn’t afford to buy books and the town library was extremely small with relatively few titles, there wasn’t much to choose from except for the set of Encyclopaedia Britannica at home. With no other options, I began with the first volume, and over the next two years I read through the entire set of twenty-six volumes, one miscellaneous entry at a time. When I finished, I read them all again. Then, I read the Bible from cover to cover.
    This isn’t to say I read all the time, or even most of the time. Because we were latchkey kids (again), the outside world was always beckoning, and there were even times that Micah’s group of friends would get together with my friends, when it almost felt like old times.
    We used to enjoy playing with the BB guns our parents got us for Christmas one year. While I suppose this is common for boys our age, what wasn’t common was what we did with them. Essentially, my brother and I—along with whoever else was stupid enough to join us—quickly learned that it was less exciting to shoot at targets than at each other, and the game we developed was simple. Someone shouted “Go,” we’d all scramble through the woods or into the abandoned house, then hunt each other down. There were no teams—it was