Max Masters

Max and Xel found each other in foster care when they were young. They don’t share a drop of blood, and they’re brothers anyway: best friends, and the closest thing to family either of them has.

Max was there when Xel was fourteen and a cut that should have needed stitches simply healed. He was there at eighteen too, at the breakfast table, when a bruise that was purple last night had vanished by morning.

Now he takes the money. When a bettor twice his size asks what he just called him, Max is already lifted off the floor, and Xel is already walking over.

Walking home in the rain, Max counts the money and tells Xel about a girl who asked if they were brothers. He said yeah. They don’t look anything alike. Different moms. Different everything.

At 1:12 a.m., stretched out on the couch with the winnings, Max asked about the guy in the back row. Glasses. Nice coat. Didn’t cheer once. Xel didn’t know and didn’t care. Max also noticed Xel icing hands that had already healed. Weird habit. Weird hands.