beats Thomas

I didn't push him. We got to the end of the trail and moved off it, slowing to walk down the beach, winding down. "Thomas," I said, "what's wrong with you today, man?"
"I'm hungry," he said, his voice a low growl.
"We can hit a McDonald's or something on the way home," I suggested.
He bared his teeth. "Not that kind of hunger."
"Oh." We walked awhile more, and I said, "But you fed just yesterday."
He laughed, a short and bitter sound. "Fed? No. That woman... that wasn't anything."
"She looked like she'd just run a marathon. You took from her."
"I took." He spat the words. "But there's no substance to it. I didn't take deeply from her. Not from anyone anymore. Not since Justine."
"But food is food, right?" I said.
"No," he said. "It isn't."
"Why?"
"It isn't like that."
"Then what is it like?"
"There's no point in telling you," he said.
"Why not?"
"You couldn't understand," he said.
"Not if you don't tell me, dolt," I said. "Thomas, I'm your brother. I want to understand you." I stopped and put my hand on his shoulder, shoving him just hard enough to make him turn to face me. "Look, I know it's not working out the way we hoped. But dammit, if you just go storming off every time you get upset about something, if you don't give me the chance to understand you, we're never going to get anywhere."
He closed his eyes, frustration evident on his face. He started walking down the beach, just at the edge of what passed for surf in Lake Michigan. I kept pace. He walked all the way down the beach, then stopped abruptly and said, "Race me back. Beat me there, and I'll tell you."
I blinked. "What kind of kindergarten crap is that?"
His grey eyes flashed with anger. "You want to know what it's like? Beat me down the beach."
"Of all the ridiculous, immature nonsense," I said. Then I hooked a foot behind Thomas's calf, shoved him down to the sand, and took off down the beach at a dead sprint.
There's an almost primal joy in the sheer motion and power of running a race. Children run everywhere for a reason-it's fun. Grown-ups can forget that sometimes. I stretched out my legs, still loose from the longer jog, and even though I was running across sand, the thrill of each stride filled my thoughts.
Behind me, Thomas spat out a curse and scrambled to his feet, setting out after me.
We ran through the grey light. The morning had dawned cold, and even at the lakeside the air was pretty dry. Thomas got ahead of me for a couple of steps, looked back, and kicked his heel, flinging sand into my face and eyes. I inhaled some of it, started gasping and choking, but managed to hook my fingers in the back of Thomas's T-shirt. I tugged hard as he stepped, and I outweighed Thomas considerably. He stumbled again, and, choking and gasping, I got ahead of him. I regained my lead and held it.
The last hundred yards were the worst. The cold, dry air and sand burned at my throat, that sharp, painful dryness that only a long run and hard breathing can really do to you. I swerved off the sand toward the parking lot, Thomas's footsteps close behind me.
I beat him back to the SUV by maybe four steps, slapped the back of the vehicle with my hand, then leaned against it, panting heavily. My throat felt like it had been baked in a kiln, and as soon as I could manage it I took the keys out of my black nylon sports pouch. There were several keys on the ring, and I fumbled at them one at a time. After the third wrong guess I had a brief, sharp urge to break the window and grab the bottle of water I'd left sitting in the driver's seat. I managed to force myself to try the keys methodically until I found the right one.
I opened the door, grabbed the bottle, twisted off the cap, and lifted it to ease the parched discomfort in my throat.
I took my first gulp, and the water felt and tasted like it had come from God's own water cooler. It took the harshest edge off the burning thirst, but I needed more to ease the discomfort completely.
Before I could swallow again, Thomas batted the water bottle out of my hand. It arched through the air and landed on the sand, spilling uselessly onto the beach.
I spun on Thomas, staring at him in surprised anger.
He met my gaze with weary grey eyes and said, "It's like that."


Dead Beat Chapter 12, Page 111-113