That afternoon, while I baked in the sun and sweated my birthday out through my pores, Noe surfed endlessly. He swept all over the place and caught whatever came in. Steep waves, closeouts, snappers he’d usually ignore because he always said they weren’t worth his time: he didn’t stop.

Hours passed. Still, I sat there on the sand and watched, waiting. At first I drafted explanations, excuses. None of them could fix this. So after the second or third hour, I just rehearsed my apology.

I’d beg for his forgiveness and swear it meant nothing. I’d take as many of his morning shifts as he wanted me to, as atonement. Somehow, I was going to make this right.

That is, if he ever came back in.

Luka found me around Hour Four. “Mom wants you guys home,” he said to me, squinting out at the water. “She’s calling for a family meeting. Sounds serious.”

I wondered if he knew. “Okay. As soon as Noe comes back in.”

“Swim out and tell him.”

“I already tried swimming out to him. He ignored me.” I nodded at the tide, then at Luka. “You swim out.”

“These shorts are new.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wants him to come in.”

“Well...you’re the one who fucked his girlfriend.”

I threw a fistful of sand at his legs, hard, while he laughed and left. Luka never took anything seriously, back then.

Noe slipped off his board and went under, bobbing back to the surface after the tide rolled in. He rarely fell anymore; another perk of being Mr. Perfect. The wave hadn’t been particularly big or anything. I figured he was getting tired, losing focus.

Good, I thought. He’ll have to come back in soon.

He wasn’t the only one getting tired. The heat, combined with the hangover, was draining me fast. I put my head on my knees and tried to will the headache away.

I almost fell asleep, but jerked my head back up when I remembered my mission. The second Noe came in, I was going to plant myself in his path and refuse to move until he heard me out. He didn’t have to forgive me. He just had to listen.

The water was empty. I got to my feet and looked around; no sign of him down the beach. Maybe he’d already left.

I started up towards the dunes, heading for our old cut-through back home. But then I saw something, out where he’d been before.

It was a hand. Just a flash of skin, there and gone in a second.

My feet took me to the water’s edge without me having to think about it. I stared at the spot and waited.

You imagined it. The swell was easy, that day. He could handle it.

I turned back. Bright sun, clear water, my eyes strained from liquor: it could have been anything.

But then I saw something else, skimming the water on the shoreline a few yards away.

His surfboard.

I ran to it like it was him. The leash was broken.

My heart was pumping broken glass as I ran into the water and dove. I didn’t notice my headache anymore, or the sea salt running through my cuts and scrapes.

“Noe!” I called, when I finally reached the spot. I looked around, but the flash I’d seen earlier—his hand, I was sure—didn’t pop up again.

I inhaled and went under. The water was vibrant and glowing, shafts of sunlight filtering through into the depths. I couldn’t see him.

Surfacing just long enough for another breath, I dove again. This time, I pushed the air out of my lungs and made myself sink deeper. I reached out and felt for him in the darkness until my chest burned.

Then I saw him, unmoving, the tide pulling him down.

I tried to get to him, but knew I’d need more air. I kicked my way back up, sputtering and shouting for help, barely getting the word out before diving again.

My arms looped around his chest. The tide caught and pitched us forward. Water forced its way into my lungs when I couldn’t resist taking a breath.

I knew I needed to drop him and surface again, just once, so I could get myself some air. But even the instinct to breathe, to save myself first so I could save him, wasn’t enough to make me let go.

Finally, we were out of the worst breaks, the shore just close enough for me to brace my feet against the bottom and push.

I started throwing up as soon as our faces hit air. Even then, I didn’t let go.

Everything would be okay when we were back on the shore. I’d saved him. He’d be fine, as soon as I got him out of this water.

The crowd that had gathered parted ways when I dragged Noe onto the shore. “Call an ambulance,” I choked. My arms released him. I fell to my knees and threw up again while one of the onlookers turned Noe over and started CPR.

A tourist with a camera around his wrist helped me stand when I finished, empty, a mess of liquor, bile, and seawater on the sand where I’d fallen. “My brother,” I managed, and he turned me around, showing me.

The woman giving him CPR stopped, put her head against his heart, and started the process again.

As I moved closer, the crowd fell away. The beach, the island, the ocean—they didn’t exist anymore.

“Open your eyes, man,” I heard myself saying, as I fell to my knees again. The woman glanced at me. She did it at least four more times: hold his nose, breathe in, push on his chest, listen. Repeat.

Each time, I watched his eyes and waited.

In the ambulance, they tried more. I kept watching.

Please, I begged silently. Whether I was praying to God or sending my thoughts to Noe, I wasn’t sure.

In the ER, a doctor put his hand on my shoulder and told me statistics I ignored, odds of brain damage, timelines. “Keep trying,” I screamed at him, throwing his hand off me and starting for the alcove where they’d taken his stretcher. If they were going to give up, I’d do it.

The doctor pushed on my chest and stopped me. “They’ll try a little longer,” he promised. “In the meantime, let’s see what we can do for you.”

They gave me a pill. I didn’t know what it was, even though they handed me a small stack of literature on it, but I took it like it could undo everything. The wave that took him down. The sun and liquor, putting me to sleep. Andrea.

By the time my family arrived, I’d stopped shouting. The staff put me in a windowless room with a table and four chairs—the room where they put you so you won’t make a scene. Where they tell you the person is dying, or already dead.

I still hadn’t let them stop. Not once.

“Mom,” I said, reaching for her as she turned away, hiding her face in Dad’s chest, “I—I tried to save him.” It was only then that I realized I was crying. How long had I been doing it?

“Dad, I got him.” I looked at him, stuttering through the words. “I saved him and—and they wanted to stop CPR and I told them no, Dad...Dad, tell them to try again—”

“Stop,” he said. It was quiet, but still knocked the air out of me. I had no idea if it was meant for me, or the staff in front of us, waiting for my parents’ verdict. The only one that would matter more than mine.

“But—but they can get that...thing, the crash cart, or—”

“Kai,” he barked, and hugged my mother tighter, like I was some wild animal and he needed to protect her. “Stop. He’s gone. You didn’t get him in time.”

Mom looked at him, like she wanted to yell and defend me. But she didn’t.

They went in without me. I couldn’t trust myself—between the pill and my denial, I probably would have grabbed the crash cart myself.

I could hear Mom crying, all the way from the elevator. Only it wasn’t the usual hush of her sobs; that, I could have handled. It was just one sharp, high noise, quickly muffled. I punched the elevator button again and again, until it opened and took me downstairs.

Even though I wasn’t there, I know exactly how it played out. Mom prayed over him, tears pouring. Dad probably had tears, but set his jaw hard to keep them at bay. Luka did something in-between: uncontrollable tears, but a face like stone through it all. They took turns saying goodbye to someone who couldn’t hear them anymore.

The only part I didn’t predict was Luka taking the broken board leash off his ankle, that the paramedics missed or ignored. But I saw it in his hand when they came out to the courtyard, where I was waiting. He balled it up inside his fist and looked away.

The funeral’s turnout was huge. A lot of people loved Noe. Old classmates, hotel staff, family, friends. Andrea showed up and watched from the road. She waved goodbye to me with her plane ticket when I dared make eye contact. I didn’t wave back.

The next week, Dad started cleaning. I’d wake up in the middle of the night with my heart in overdrive, sure that was Noe I was hearing, bumping around in the room behind mine. Then Dad would clear his throat or gripe about his back as he lifted another box, packed and ready for his daily trips to the charity drop-off.

Within a month, every trace of Noe was gone from our house, even the family portraits in the living room. Instead of just culling out his photos, though, Dad got rid of them all: my baby photo, Luka’s third grade portrait, the dried and pressed flowers in gold frames we gave our mom every year on Mother’s Day. As if seeing our photos—knowing we’d get so many more, and Noe wouldn’t—was too much for him.

Piece by piece, Noe’s things dropped out of our lives, just like his name dropped out of everyone’s vocabulary but mine. Dad even removed the mounts in Noe’s wall, where our grandpa’s longboard used to be. I’d put the board in my room the day before, worried it would make Dad’s clean-out list.

Trophies, clothes, paystubs—even his television. Dad hauled every scrap of it away.

The only reminder he couldn’t get rid of, in the end, was me.