My older brother, Jacob, announced at age eleven that he only desired two things in life. Harmony and affection. At twelve, he devised a meditation schedule that involved silent contemplation for one hour followed by another of “human embrasure.” He erected an elaborate tower of pillows and blankets, stacking them until the structure reached the top of his shoulders. Wiggling inside the fortress, he’d press tight to the walls, absorbing its downy clutches like a prolonged hug. The only thing visible above the padding was the top of Jacob’s head. His eyes fluttered. Somewhere beneath the puffy barriers, muffled cooing could be heard. While his theories were understandable, if not ingenious, the practice left us concerned and disturbed. Nobody knew how to approach him about it.

Last month, Jacob turned twenty-four. He still lives at home but leaves daily to visit the outdoor exercise stations at the local park where he trains himself to walk backward across balance beams and lie flat atop the monkey bars without flinching. On the way home, he asks strangers if they’d like to come over and join him for lunch. He told me that he offers to cook them whatever they want, and still nobody has ever accepted his invitation. This confuses and wounds him, which makes me feel like crawling into a giant hole and covering it with dirt.

A few days ago, Jacob noticed that our kitchen table was leaning to one side. He pulled a book of matches from the junk drawer and wedged it under one of the legs. When it continued wobbling, he added some napkins. He dragged it a couple feet to the left, thinking the floor had grown crooked. When it still teetered, he went mad. He taped a pin cushion to the bottom of one post, then sawed the bottom off another on the opposite side. He kept calling us in to show us his handiwork but then turning us away at the last second, realizing he still had more tinkering to do. He cursed and slapped himself. All night long we heard hammering and chiseling followed by anguished moans.

Yesterday, he hollered for us to come quick! He’d found the perfect solution, some mixture of locational stability and affixed materials for equilibrium. We rushed to the kitchen door, ready to fling it open in celebration, but something blocked our entrance. Jacob had slid the table against the frame for support.

“Come in!” he yelled. “You’ll be so proud!”

“We can’t,” Dad said. “You’ll have to move the table.”

“Impossible. It’s perfect. Wait until you see,” Jacob said. “You’ll love it.”

It went on like this, rattling and ramming the door for an unbearable amount of time. After several exhausting minutes, we gave up. Dad stepped back and slumped against the wall, sliding down to the carpet. I sat next to him.

“I’m sure it’s incredible,” Dad said, “we can see it in our minds. Tell him," he whispered, elbowing my arm.

“Yes,” I said, “I see it. It’s really something.”

“You guys are coming, right?” Jacob said. “Guys?”

“It's incredible,” Dad said again. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s it...”

We closed our eyes. Dad grabbed my hand. Together, we took deep, shuddering breaths.

Simon A. Smith is a Chicago teacher and writer. His stories have appeared in many journals and media outlets, including Hobart, Whiskey Island, Chicago Public Radio, and NewCity. He is the author of two novels, Son of Soothsayer, and Wellton County Hunters. He lives in Rogers Park with his wife and son.