The Strange Calculus of Grief

The day my brother died, the dogwoods were in bloom. I sat by my bedroom windowsill, painting my nails. Junior prom was just hours away. I was 16. My brother, Alex, was 18—just 22 months older than me. The car accident happened on a highway in upstate New York in the early morning. My brother was driving a group of his college classmates to an ultimate-frisbee tournament. Over time, my family has settled on the theory that he fell asleep at the wheel, though for a while my parents thought...