Once, I was outside with my older brother (he was an adult by that time, I was not) while he played with his remote control car. It was one of those nice ones enthusiasts race at tracks on the weekends, rather than your garden variety toy car. At one point he aimed it right at me and sent it forward at full speed. It crashed into my leg, leaving a small, bleeding wound. He was equal parts apologetic and astounded that I'd held my ground. He told me later that he'd been expecting me to move at the last second, and I told him that I'd expected him to swerve before hitting me. Our understanding of each other never improved beyond the point of identifying our mismatched expectations. He died a few years later, as much a stranger to me as he'd ever been.