Family is a weird thing. This is Scott. Technically, he’s my cousin. In spirit, he’s something more like a brother. In fact, a few months ago my actual brother Jesse Eugene said this to me: “Don’t take this the wrong way–but you were gone for years and Scotty sort of took your place as my little brother.”

He’s been a good little brother (though, truth be told, it’s a wee bit difficult to think of Scott as a ‘little’ anything, given that he’s got the bulk and mass of a Sherman tank).

I shot this photograph in Jesse Eugene’s room at the hospice. Scott had just arrived (he’s been there every day) and sat down. The light from the window fell on his face and I sort of demanded he not move for a moment. We hadn’t really spoken at that point, other than to say hello. After shooting the photograph Scott told me he’d just heard that his best friend had been killed in a motorcycle accident in Wyoming.

It’s been a tough few days all around. There he was, sitting in the room where his ‘brother’ was slowly dying, thinking about his friend. And yet when asked to sit for a photo, Scott just quietly went along with it. Which is what brothers do.