He walks with a poplar cane along the sagging fence line, his shoulders hunched, his steps as tentative as an old man’s. From where I stand on the porch of our family’s rented home, you wouldn’t know he was just sixteen. I watch as my older brother Darren meanders over a grassy hummock and stops, then turns and stares in my direction, as if my spying on him has made a sound that he can detect from a hundred yards away. He never took aimless walks before the accident. He was always revved up and ready for the next farm chore or six-pack of Schlitz. But since he got out of the hospital two days ago, he’s moved at the pace of a country gentleman with time to spare.