We sat at the counter like we always did, elbows up, spinning on the red vinyl stools. Like we were kids. His face had aged since I'd seen him last. He looked pale, gaunt, like he was hiding in his house, curtains drawn, lights out. 

I stopped eating sugar. It's affecting me in weird ways. 

I glanced at his arms. My brother was always the good kid growing up, not because he was wholesome, but because he was afraid of drugs. His seizures and asthma kept him clean for most of his life, and when he decided he wasn't afraid of them anymore, not afraid of anything, abandoning his fears altogether, he went loose on them all.

What. 
Nothing. 

We ordered bacon cheeseburgers and a side of chili fries to split. He ate his burger in four bites. It was the fastest I had ever seen him eat. Ever. He was always the last person to leave the table, and only because my mom got tired of watching him watch his food. Finish it, she'd scream at him. I'm not hungry anymore, he'd spit back defiantly. 

But now, he was always hungry. 

When the bill came, he reached in his back pocket and took out a five dollar bill. That okay? he asked me. Sure. I had it. Close enough. And then he took a small pill out of the front of his jeans and emptied it out into his soda. Drank the whole thing. 

What was that? 
Nothing.