Harbor.

 The Germs On My Hands For eighteen years, I had taken the continental breakfasts, accepted the hotel suites, and lived within the climate-controlled air my mother provided like a freeloader. My sister had done the same for eight. A few days ago, in Tianjin, we were at breakfast. I sat her down. She reached for the food she had spilled onto the tabletop. I watched her fingers on the formica. And then it came, as it always did: the sharp correction, "the germs on your hands", my habitual predawn vexation rising. Later, the familiar shame settled. I might've failed again. Failed at brotherhood. Failed at the simplest thing. I t is difficult to explain this cleanly.  I hadn't meant it as a rebuke; it's just the way I was spoiled at a younger age, some healthy conditioning, I guess, being constantly reminded of the germs on my hands. I could argue they were everywhere, and the probability of them keeping my heart pounding instead of air, like it's just the way I w...