Christopher hated mirrors.
He refused visitors after dark.
He woke from nightmares shouting names.
Daniel.
Marcus.
Ryan.
The first time I heard my brother’s name, I nearly dropped a glass.
Christopher pretended he hadn’t said it.
By the end of the first week, Brandon’s fever was gone.
Emma had stopped asking whether we had enough food.
I paid three months of overdue rent.
Then Christopher did something unexpected.
He asked about my children.
“What are their names?”
We were in the library.
I was organizing his medication.
“Brandon and Emma.”
“How old?”
“Eight and five.”
“Father?”
I stiffened.
“Gone.”
“Dead?”
“No.”
Christopher glanced at me.
“He left when Emma was two.”
“Why?”
“Because responsibility bored him.”
Christopher looked almost offended.
“His loss.”
“Yes.”
For several seconds, silence settled between us.
Then he asked, “Brandon likes baseball?”
I stared at him.
“How do you know that?”
“You mentioned buying him a glove yesterday.”
