Outside in the dark, the wind slowly grows steady. Occasional gusts push against the little house. The storm spins and spits sand against the windows sounds like sleet. 

Bruce brushes his teeth and puts his toothbrush next to Roy’s. He looks at himself in the mirror. He stares at the face he has hated and admired all his life. The face and features that got him bullied in school and the cocky smile he slid across the bar months ago that got Roy’s attention.

He hasn’t shaved in days. The thick shadow matches the stubble on his head. His ears are crooked, one lower than the other. He looks at the new scar along his cheekbone. It’s tender still pink from the fight with his brother. Still fresh and raw in his mind; it’s not the first scar from him.

He clicks off the bathroom light.

In the little bedroom, Roy is already in bed. Asleep and the dog stretched out snoring. Bruce quietly, with a steady hand, picks up the piece of firewood off the bed and puts it on the floor. The dog has been carting it around for over a week. Unseasoned oak, it's a pungent piece of security.

Bruce stands there for a moment and watches them sleep. The house creaks in the wind. 

He undresses. Tugs his underwear off. Slides under the sheets and covers and gently shoves the dog over to give himself some room. The dog gives out a tired groan.

Bruce turns off the lamp. It’s pitch dark. He can’t see the room around him or an inch in front of him. The dog stretches and pushes Bruce back towards the edge of the bed. Two grown men and a dog in a bed too small.

Wide awake for a while. The darkness is unsettling. He holds up his hand again in front of his face. Nothing. He cannot see a thing. Another rage of wind. He tries to take a deep breath. But it is short and shallow. He rolls over; he eventually fades and falls asleep to the sound of the wind, the snoring dog and the quiet breathing next to him. Sleeping scars.