The Stream

I still believe I imagined the thin white film over my brother's eyes. My own were unreliable, still recovering from the laser surgery I had postponed until I couldn't even use a phone without discomfort. We had joked with my brother that no torture could make him stop scrolling. In a world of constant connection he was more online than most, his fingers scrolling feeds with a regularity no less biological than breathing or pulse.

What I know I saw, too clear and unexpected to be an illusion, was him sitting next to my bed not using his phone. He had the same expression of distracted focus he had when he did — a look we all know by sight and muscle memory — but I could see no phone except in the negative space of his hand.

"Hey," I said, breaking his concentration. "Where's your phone?"

He blinked and looked at his empty hand. He didn't seem to have understood my question.

My eyes still hurt. I closed them. "Never mind." We were used to companionable silence. At irregular moments there was a subtle jump in my brother's breath, as if he had seen a particularly funny post. I hadn't heard him leave his chair.

(Originally posted on my blog.)