When Ramsy leads us outside, his hand firmly on the small of my back, I decide that "car" is not the appropriate term for his vehicle. It's a limousine. Not a stretch one. But a sleek, elongated black town car with two benches of seating that face each other. Climbing into the rear of the limousine, I take one side, Ramsy takes the other—and Curtis promptly begins switching sides every thirty seconds.

My brother is fascinated by the glass decanters and buttons and air-conditioning vents, his ...