We couldn't get along without him. We needed Johnny as much as he needed the gang. And for the same reason.

He died violent and young and desperate, just like we all knew he'd die someday.

We had played a kid's version of gang fighting called "Civil War," and then later we had got in on the real thing, we fought with chains and we fought barefisted and we fought Socs and we fought other grease gangs. It was a normal childhood.

He sure put things into words good.

All of a sudden it felt like people were peering over my shoulder, wondering what I would write next. I was blocked for four years.

Your mother is not crazy. Neither, contrary to popular belief, is your brother. He is merely miscast in a play. He would have made the perfect knight in a different century, or a very good pagan prince in a time of heroes. He was born in the wrong era, on the wrong side of the river, with the ability to do anything and finding nothing he wants to do.

I wish I was a kid again, when I had all the answers.