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Much has been said, mostly by strangers who lean in and whisper as though they’re sharing state secrets, about Don, Evil Commissioner for Life. (His term ends the same day time itself does, which is penciled in for next Tuesday.) And then there’s his brother Din, the family’s overachiever-slash-existential crisis in human form. Don does not speak of Din, which is wise. Even the mention of his name once caused Don’s eye to twitch so hard it knocked over a drink.

Din’s résumé reads like the fever dream of a game show contestant: he invented Fantasy Football (“Why should regular football be the only source of crushing disappointment?”), disproved Einstein’s Laws of Relativity (“Turns out time can be bent, but only if you’re late for a dental appointment”), and grew Brussels sprouts ten feet tall. Ten feet! These are vegetables you don’t sauté—you negotiate with them.

Worst of all? Din loathed The Eagles, referring to them only as “that band Don likes” in a tone so withering it could brown a houseplant from across the street.

Don soldiers on, wearing the brittle smile of a man who’s mastered the art of pretending not to care while absolutely caring so much it requires a small ice pack. Meanwhile, the legend of Din expands—like mildew, or conspiracy theories about the moon. After his mysterious DOGE stint (details classified under “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you”), Din talked Elon into renaming Twitter, as if vowels were being rationed in wartime.

These days, Din claims to be “splitting the split half of an atom,” which sounds less like physics and more like an ugly custody battle between electrons. Don’s silence endures, which may in fact be the greatest achievement in the family—surpassing even the sprouts.