Brother had been away a year. He did time for marijuana possession in some little county jail in Florida. When we spoke on the phone, he’d said he wanted to come home.
“It’s time,” he had said.
I picked him up at the airport. All he had was a Nike gym bag. We hugged.
“Good to see you, Brother,” I said. “Things have changed.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he answered.
I stepped into the driver’s seat, and Brother had lit a joint.
“Where the hell did you get that?” I asked.
“Under your seat, where I left it,” he said, smiling.