I can smell metal in the air tonight

The orphanage is a bleak place. It is as it was in your memory; the same scent of cheap citrus disinfectant, the same stains on the wall from unknown origin. The same feeling of general underfunded hopelessness, and the same kind of people trying to make the best of this place despite it.

That said, you don’t remember much beyond that. Or—your mind doesn’t, anyway. Your body has kept score, shrinking from hospitals, freezing at the sound of thunder, and jolting awake from nightmares that slip from your fingers like ghosts of a past life. Not tangible enough to be recalled beyond anything but vague shapes, a certain colour. The smell of burning skin. You’ve stopped trying long ago. You were one of the lucky ones, after all; better to count your blessings.

You watch the peeling wallpaper across the admin’s office. It’s a cramped space, with old cups of coffee crammed in between stacks of paperwork. An ancient computer crowns the centre of it. Dust has collected on top of the chunky monitor, and the central unit tucked under the desk rumbles weakly while the clerk clacks away on the keyboard.

“There we go,” the clerk says. “Got all your info… You’re quite young, aren’t you? Not many people your age sign up for the foster program.” He glances at you over his glasses, gaze lingering meaningfully on your naked ring finger. “Especially without a partner.”

“All my paperwork was approved,” you say in response. A little defensive. It’s far from the first time you’ve heard this exact comment, and you’ve gotten tired of explaining yourself. You know the only reason you were accepted in the first place is because they’re so desperate for anyone to step in and relieve them of yet another mouth to feed with money that just isn’t there. So what if you’re young? Your record is clean enough to eat off, and you have a stable job that pays well. As long as the social worker assigned to your case finds no fault in you they’re all too happy to have you.

No need for the curious little comments.

“Right,” the clerk says, dipping their chin in agreement. “Well, your charge is waiting for you. This way.”

He rises, swivel chair creaking as he moves, and you follow him out the office and into the corridor. Two doors away the boy that will be living with you from now on sits at a table, quietly picking at his nails. He looks up when the door opens and you step inside, expression wary and shuttered. He looks older than his age—though his file states his birthday as thirteen years ago (fourteen in another couple of months) he’s tall even while sitting down.

You’ve been asked repeatedly if you wouldn’t like someone younger. It’s a difficult age, thirteen, the social workers told you. And this boy has already gone through several foster homes. A reject. When you asked the reason he kept being returned they couldn’t really give you an answer. He’s a good boy, they assured you. Good manners, excellent grades—he’s at the top of his class, in fact, and his teachers love him.

You noted when you first saw his picture that he’s handsome too. The kind of boy that would get picked before others. It doesn’t matter to you, but it does make you wonder what could have offset all these desirable qualities. Ten foster homes, ten rejections. Not a suitable match, the paperwork says, which could mean anything. It gets harder as kids get older—you know that much. You asked specifically for a teenager. A kid that has been in the system for a long time with no way out, who would have to start their adult life without anyone on their side.

When asked why you said you have work. You can’t be home all the time for someone young, and this is true. You need them to be self-sufficient to a certain degree. But the real reason is that you can’t bear the thought that that could’ve been you. Trapped and alone, with no hand to latch onto.

“Caleb,” the clerk says. “This is your foster parent. Though I suppose she’s more like a sister considering your age, isn’t she?” His chuckle dies down when no one joins him, and he clears his throat. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Buzzer’s over there if you need anything.”

The door shuts behind him, and for a moment you and Caleb look at each other. His eyes are beautiful; the kind of purple that makes you think of dusk. A setting sun.

“Hi,” you say as you sit down, and introduce yourself, “—but you can call me whatever you want. Mom, or jiejie, or just my name. Up to you. Don’t force yourself.”

“Okay,” Caleb says. His voice is quiet.

“Do you want to ask me anything? Or do you just want to get your stuff?” You smile at him, this quiet, guarded boy, and put your clasped hands on the table before you. “If you don’t feel like talking, we don’t have to. We can take our time trying to get along.”

Caleb frowns a little. “…Why did you pick me?”

“Why not?”

He looks down at his hands. His nails have been bitten to the quick. Nervous habit. He’s fidgeting with the paper cup that he must have been drinking out of; it’s empty now, and it crinkles as Caleb rubs over the edge with his thumb. “I’m almost fourteen. And when I’m eighteen I can leave on my own. I know they told you I’ve already had a lot of foster homes, so.” He shrugs a little, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

“You’re right,” you say. Caleb’s head jerks up, eyes darting over your face. You think you see a flash of fear on his face, but it’s gone too soon to say for sure. “But just because you haven’t found a place that’s right for you doesn’t mean there’s no point in trying again. And once you’re eighteen—” You think back to graduating. Gran couldn’t be there—hospital, again—so you visited her after you were let go. You brought your own flowers, graduation cap still in hand as you sat on her bedside. Her wrinkled hand patted yours, and she told you she was proud. “Well, people who are eighteen also need someone on their side.”

Caleb falls silent for a long time, and you don’t push him. Only when the clerk pops his head around the door do you ask him, “Want to go get your things?” and he nods. He jumps up from his seat, clearly relieved to get away, and runs off. The paper cup he was fiddling with remains, little scraps of white broken off by his anxious fingers, and you sweep your palm over them.

They flutter to the floor, catching the dust motes lazily floating in the light.

You sort through the last necessary paperwork until Caleb reappears. He’s carrying two big duffel bags, one across each shoulder. It makes him look smaller. More like a child. “Here,” you say. You hold out your hand to take one of his bags from him, but to your surprise Caleb hoists his bag to the side and slips his hand in yours. It’s warm and dry. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but he holds onto you tightly.

You squeeze briefly, and together you step out the orphanage’s doorway. You hold his hand all the way to the car.

“Jie,” Caleb calls out. “Your phone’s going off.”

You curse, hastily shrugging on your blouse and rushing through your apartment, to the kitchen where Caleb is doing homework. You grab your phone and press it between ear and shoulder while you fiddle with the buttons. “Hello—? … No, I was on my way out. It’s fine.” You glance at Caleb while you fix the last button in place; he startles when you make eye contact and quickly looks away, bending deeper over his math homework. “Mm-hmm. Sure, that sounds good. … What, again?” You sigh. “Okay. No, I understand. See you in ten.” The call ends, and you put your phone in your pocket. “That was Tara. She called to let me know we’ll be working late today, but I’ll be home before you go to bed. Dinner’s ready for you in the fridge. Don’t eat it cold, okay? Couple minutes in the microwave. You can call me or text me anytime if you need something.”

Caleb nods obediently. “I know. Come back safe, jiejie.”

You smile and gently stroke his head before turning away and grabbing your bag. “See you soon.”

The late afternoon sun falls over your face after you close the door behind you. You walk with purpose. If you don’t your feet will take you back to your apartment, to Caleb, to make sure he knows who to call when he feels sick or gets hurt or if the microwave sets the house on fire. To remind him not to open the door for strangers and that the first aid kit is on the first shelf in the hallway cabinet, and that if the dinner you cooked for him doesn’t taste good it’s okay not to eat it, as long as he eats something else. It’s hard to resist the urge to spoil and smother him. But you try: he’s a teenager—almost fourteen, he kept saying when you offered to help him put his new desk together, a little defiantly—and he needs his space. That, and to feel that you trust him with the responsibility to feed himself and go to bed on time.

You want him to feel like he has control over his life. Even if it’s just little things, like picking out the furniture for his room. And he appreciates this, you think. Caleb is a quiet kid. At times it’s hard to gauge what’s going through his head, but these past first few months have gone relatively smoothly.  You were worried that his performance at school might slip, but he’s still getting straight As. He likes to run track and play basketball with his classmates, so you got him good shoes and his own ball. There’s a small court with hoops in a nearby park, and you encourage him to go out and play with friends after school.

You sometimes wonder, in fact, if he isn’t adapting a little too quickly. He started calling you jie without any real prompting. He listens well. There are rules to living here, you’d told him, but if we find out that something’s not working we’ll try to change it and make it work better. He seemed surprised by this; the first time he’d broken a “rule” (his phone had died and his class had run late, and he’d missed the bus—one of the longest hours of your life. You’d been getting ready to look for him all over town) he’d been near frantic, apologising over and over again with a glassy look in his eye. When you raised your hand to put on his shoulder he’d flinched.

You took him to the mall that same week and told him to pick out a new phone, seething internally.

You push open the door to the Association’s office, and inhale the smell of printer ink and stale coffee. “Hiii,” Tara says, swivelling around when she hears you come in. She waves with both hands, fingers fluttering, then lowers her voice dramatically. “Welcome to corporate slave HQ. The work is endless, and clock-out time is never. From the moment you stepped inside this building your soul was forfeit.”

You laugh and sit down at your own cubicle. “What, you think trading my soul for two-day old sandwiches for lunch is a bad deal?”

Tara makes a face and turns back to her computer. “You laugh now, but wait till you see what we have to deal with today.” And she’s right: once you log in and see the mess you have to clean up—leftovers from a change in IT workers and budget cuts, as per new government regulations—your smile is quickly traded for a sigh. There’s not much you can do except complain and get to work, though. As you and Tara are getting started some other members of your team filter in; Nero, Simone, and even Xavier make an appearance, and commiserate about the workload before settling in their own work stations. No one’s happy about being called in on a weekend, but the atmosphere lightens when captain Jenna drops by with coffee from a local café instead of the tar they serve in the Association’s cafeteria.

Hours slip past, and time fills itself with the quiet click-clack of fingers over keyboards and the soft whirr of AC. Afternoon fades into evening. The light outside dims and stretches out over the skyline languidly, sliding down the high-rise buildings until it’s swallowed completely by shadow’s silhouette.

When the early night hours roll around you submit the final report with cramping fingers. “Guh,” you manage, and smack your laptop shut with real feeling. Tara groans in sympathy, slumping back in her chair like a ragdoll, and across from you Simone stretches her arms wide above her head with a curse.

“I need a drink,” she deadpans.

“Aha,” Tara says smugly. “That’s what I thought.” She reaches under her desk and proudly produces a six-pack of beers, much to the surprise and delight of everyone else in the room. “Ta-daaa! I figured everyone could use a treat after today.”

She hands out the cans, but you shake your head when it’s your turn. “I should get going,” you say. “I’ve got someone waiting for me.”

“Your foster kid?” Simone asks.

“Aww, come on,” Tara says. She shakes the can side to side in front of you. “Just one drink? He’s a big kid, right? He’ll be fine.”

You hesitate for a moment. Since Caleb’s been living with you you haven’t really had the time to hang out with your colleague friends after work. Or outside of work, for that matter. You’ve been so busy with social workers and signing papers and going through balanced meals for teenagers that taste good forums that your social life has taken a hit. Which is fine—you expected as much. If it’s for Caleb you don’t mind. But…

Tara senses your hesitation and latches onto it immediately. “Come on, I’ve missed you! Just one drink, and then I’ll let you go.”

“Alright,” you give in, and put your bag back on your desk. Tara claps in delight, and soon everyone is idly drinking and chatting in your little office room. It’s nice. Nero has put on a lo-fi playlist, Simone is talking animatedly about her favourite girl band, and Xavier is quietly listening to it all like he always does. Tara settles next to you on the table you’re leaning against, and nudges you with her arm. She smiles at you, and you realise that you’ve missed her, too.

“Sooo. How are you holding up?” Tara asks. “What’s it like, being a parent and all?”

“Good,” you answer honestly. “Busy. Anxiety-inducing,” you add with a small smile. “I worry a lot more than I used to—about Caleb, you know. Even though he’s doing really well. But it’s actually not as hard as I thought it would be. I was prepared for more… I don’t know. Teenage angst? But it’s been good.”

“That’s because you’ve been a caretaker all your life,” Tara says, pointing at you with her almost-empty beer can, and she lets out a sigh, leaning her head on your shoulder. “Which means I’m gonna see you even less than I already do. Couldn’t you have gotten a dog or something? Most people’s response to their family dying isn’t to replace them with someone new, you know.”

“I’m not replacing Gran,” you say, and take another swig of your drink. “I just want to do for someone what she did for me.”

Tara hums a little, and falls quiet. “I just want you to put yourself first for once,” she says finally.

“I’m doing what I want to do,” you say gently, then add with a bit more energy, “And if I get too caught up in things you’ll be there to pull me out, right? So I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Tara rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath, but she stays there pressed against your side long past when you’ve both finished your drinks.

In the end you stay longer than you’d meant to, and when you get back home the house is dark. As you step further inside blue light glows brighter and dimmer in intervals against the wall; the TV is on, but without any sound. All the other lights have been turned off, so you click on floor lamp on when you reach the living room. It washes Caleb’s back in warm light, melting into the blue that illuminates his front. He turns the moment he hears you, rising slightly from his seat.

“You’re back,” he says, sounding relieved.

“I’m back,” you agree. You smile at him. You’re tired, but the alcohol has relaxed you, and combined with getting a healthy dose of social interaction you feel looser. Lighter, when you sink down on the sofa. Caleb stands and walks to the kitchen; you hear the tap turn on, the clink of dishware, and he returns holding a glass of water.

“For you,” he says.

“What a gentleman,” you say, half-teasing. “Thank you. Are you getting ready for bed?” Caleb shakes his head. You wait, but he says nothing else; he just hovers with a nervous, slightly awkward energy. You pat the space next to you. “Then… you wanna stay a little longer?”

Immediately Caleb sinks down. You laugh a little, amused and endeared, and sling one arm over the back of the sofa while you drink your water. From the corner of your eye Caleb inches closer until his head almost touches your hand. When he moves it to look at you the edges of his hair just barely brush your fingers. It’s soft.

“So,” you say to keep yourself from brushing your hand over it, “what does the birthday boy want to do next weekend? Did you think about what you want as a gift?” you set the glass on the low table, turning your body towards him. “Do you want to do something with your friends? You could go out to see a movie and get something to eat. There’s a burger place close by that’s pretty good. Whatcha think?”

“You don’t need to get me anything,” Caleb says, looking a little bashful. He said the same thing when you first probed him for birthday plans, to which you’d told him to think about it at least.

“True,” you nod, “I don’t need to. I want to. But if you’d rather save the big celebrations for when you’re older that’s fine, too. Orrr maybe you won’t need your jie anymore then, huh?” You poke his side, and when Caleb laughs and squirms away you do it again, grinning. “You might be off celebrating with a girlfriend by then. Or maybe you’ll be off to college and you won’t have time to come home at all. Hm?”

Caleb tries to sputter an answer but can’t; your tickling is too much, and he can only gasp around his quiet laughs. “Stop,” he wheezes. “Stop, jie, I can’t.” So you stop. Caleb sighs, slumping back against the sofa. “I wouldn’t do that,” he says breathlessly. “I wouldn’t.”

“I know,” you say, softening. “I was just teasing you. You’re a good boy.”

Caleb ducks his head. His ears look faintly pink. “…You’re really going to celebrate next year with me, too?”

“Of course. And every year after that, for as long as you want to.”

“Do you promise?”

The voice that asks you this question is quiet and very small. Your heart squeezes and softens, bleeding a thick, viscous red. Caleb is so young. Just a kid. Thirteen years old and already so self-reliant, his whole inner world drawn inward and locked up tight behind doors that say don’t worry about me and I can take care of myself. But he didn’t really get to grow up properly, did he? A reject. A want-not. Your baby.

“I promise,” you say, and hold out your pinky. Caleb curls his own finger around yours, and you shake on it. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

There’s not one single moment that you can point at and say here. This is where things changed. It’s a gradual thing. Slow. It takes time, and not just on Caleb’s side. You’re learning, too. You weren’t lying when you told Tara that you were busy. You read parenting books before you fall asleep. You sign school slips, look over Caleb’s homework, and attend teacher-parent conferences. You buy groceries and cook and clean and do laundry, even when your job has your dead tired, and look up how to DIY home improvement because suddenly things that you’d never even thought twice about, like a loose cabinet door or a lock that doesn’t close properly, need to be in good working order now that there’s a teenager running about that needs to use them, too. You look up which kind of clothes are good for boys. What shampoo they need. You teach Caleb how to sew and where to hit someone in the face if they try to grab you. You stop swearing. You watch yourself closely, because Caleb is watching you closely. And he absorbs it all, everything you do, like a hungry sponge, expanding both figuratively and literally, as though the only thing his young body needed to finally grow into what it was supposed to be was a safe, warm place to call home with three solid meals a day. His growth spurts are never-ending.

But if you absolutely had to pick a day where something shifted it would be that very first birthday. Fourteen years old, and barely half a year into his life here with you. He still calls you jiejie. Big sister. You watch him leave for school in the morning and when he opens the front door, so the does the one in your chest, and as he steps out your heart grows legs and walks out of your ribcage.

Caleb’s birthday falls on the weekend.

In the end he kept shaking his head when you asked him if wanted to celebrate it with friends, and so you wake up in the early hours to bake him a cake. It’s a simple thing, a recipe from a box, but you do the frosting yourself—writing HAPPY BIRTHDAY CALEB! as neatly as you can manage, and then immediately getting it all over your hands.

When his bedroom door opens you hastily wipe them on a towel, and push the messy bowls and spoons to the side.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” you sing. “Happy birthday, dear Caleb, happy birthday to you…”

Caleb stands there in his pyjamas and bedhead, looking completely stunned. His lips have parted, and his eyes keep flicking back and forth between you and the cake that is sitting in the centre of the table. The little candles shimmer cheerfully; fourteen in total. They just barely fit.

“Happy birthday to you,” you finish, and you give him a big smile. “Good morning. Did you sleep well? You can have cake for breakfast if you want.”

Caleb stares and stares. “For me?” he asks.

You put out forks and plates on the dining table. “Wanna blow out the candles and make a wish?” Caleb moves slowly and sinks onto his usual chair with the sort of expression people wear when they’re sleepwalking. He looks at you again, still dumbstruck, and you smile at him. “Go on,” you encourage him.

He turns to the candles, then, squeezing his eyes shut before blowing them all out with one big gust. You take out your phone and open the camera, already moving back so you can snap a photo of the birthday boy—but when Caleb notices he says, “No, you be in it, too, jie.” You obey, holding out the phone and flashing a peace sign. Caleb mimics you, and in the viewfinder you watch his disbelieving smile grow wider when he meets your eyes.

You eat the cake together. You make sure he gets the nicest piece with the most frosting, and when he sheepishly nods after you ask if he’s still hungry you make him pancakes. You let him put whatever he likes on—Caleb has a fondness for trying weird flavours together, marmalade and grape jelly and cream cheese and pickles and whatever is sour-sweet and unusual. He’s not a picky eater, but watching him pick and choose what he likes best fills your stomach better than any food could.

You give him his gift after. You settled on a model kit of a fighter jet; Caleb’s hands like to be busy, and now he can use them to build something instead of chewing at them. Caleb looks at the box in his hands for a long time, head bent, so you can’t see his expression. But when he stands from his seat he throws his arms around your waist and hugs you tightly.

It’s the very first time he’s done so, and you try to sound normal when you hug him back. “I assume that means you like it?”

“Thank you,” Caleb says, strangled.

“Of course,” you say, and you squeeze him one last time before loosening your arms. Can’t be greedy. “But you’ll have to wait a little before you build it. I wanted to take you to the mall first. Someone keeps outgrowing his clothes, and I figured your birthday would be as good a day as any to get some new ones.”

“Sorry,” Caleb says, eyes lowered. You smile a little, and gently stroke over his head.

“Don’t be. It’s a good thing. My little brother is growing up to be big and strong—how could I not be happy?”

Caleb’s ears go pink, and they stay that way for most of the rest of the day. Is it really okay? he asks several times while the pile of stuff in your cart grows bigger. Can I have this?

Of course, you tell him. He can pick out whatever he likes. Try it on too, make sure it fits. He looks so handsome—that’s such a nice colour on him. He picked this himself? He’s got such good taste. He’s really gotten so much bigger recently, how is it possible that he keeps growing? No, it’s a good thing. It’s a wonderful thing. He looks wonderful. He’s going to break a lot of hearts when he’s older, you can already tell.

“I’ll never break yours, jie,” Caleb says solemnly.

You laugh and ruffle his hair. “Smooth-talker.”

After Caleb has loaded your purchases in the back of your car—he insisted he be the one to do it, jie, just let him do it—you ask if he’d like you to take him to a hairdresser. His hair is starting to hang in his eyes. But no, he shakes his head again, and asks if you can’t do it instead.

“Are you sure? I’ve never cut someone’s hair before,” you warn him. “I might be really bad at it and make you look silly.”

He just shrugs, and says “I don’t care. I just want you to do it.”

So you return home. Caleb sits in the kitchen chair while you clip his hair little by little, pausing to rewatch the tutorial video on your laptop. Caleb says nothing; he just waits patiently, even though you’re slow, playing with the fidget spinner you gave him. He’s wearing a towel around his shoulders you clipped together with clothespins. Still his hair gets everywhere, in the nape of his neck, under your nails, fluttering down onto the floor and sticking there. Dark dead ends, shed and scattered like a snake’s moulting skin.

The back of it is a little uneven, but you think it could be worse. Probably. It’s a good thing Caleb’s hair is on the darker side; it hides some of your more obvious mistakes.

“Esteemed customer,” you say, and hold out a mirror, “I believe we’re all finished. Are you satisfied with today’s service?”

Caleb’s eyes aren’t looking at himself in the mirror; they’ve cut to yours, and he laughs. You smile back. You love his joy. “It looks good,” he insists, even when you fuss over uneven ends. “Jie, it’s fine. It’ll grow out again.”

You clean up together. Caleb looks nice and fresh with his new haircut, so you suggest going out to get dinner. Your treat, whatever he likes. You can eat in front of the TV, too, watch movies that he’s not quite old enough for yet just this once. Wrapper papers sit right next to Caleb’s model kit. He’s gotten much further already than you’d expected. The TV’s light bounces off its plastic edges, flickering over the assembled parts like they’ve already taken flight, gleaming under parting clouds.

Really, you think to yourself while you’re curled up on the sofa next to Caleb, isn’t this a little too easy? You watch his side profile. Is he happy? Are you doing enough for him? Can he feel how much you love him?

Maybe you’re not supposed to love him this much already. Or to think of him as yours. You’re not his parent, and you’re not his sister. But you want to be. You wish you were. Even if this ends. He could leave and come back in ten years and you would open your door for him without hesitation, without questions, and you’d bake him cake and cut his hair and eat burgers with him on the sofa.

Something burns in your eyes. At that very moment Caleb has noticed your gaze on him, and he turns his head.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You smile. “Nothing.” You lift the hand that was draped over the back of the couch and stroke over his hair. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

Quiet surprise washes over Caleb’s face, but he doesn’t say anything.

For the rest of the movie, his head leans against your shoulder.

“Jie,” someone says urgently. “Jie, jie, wake up. Please wake up. Jie, please, please.”

You’re ripped from the haze of sleep. Something is pulling at your arm, and you force your eyes to open and fumble for the nightlight. When it clicks on someone lets out a sob. Your little brother is crying.

You are suddenly wide awake and alert.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” You sit up in your bed, fingers itching for your gun. It’s in your nightstand drawer, but you don’t want to take it out unless it’s really necessary. Caleb shouldn’t see that. He looks shaken enough as it is, anyway; his face is pale, and his hands haven’t let go of your sleeve. He’s still gripping your sleeve, and appears like he woke you in a state of terror. His eyes are wet.

“Caleb,” you say, a little more urgently. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He shakes his head, and you relax somewhat. You put your hand on his shoulder, stroking between his shoulder blades, but stop when he tenses under your touch. He curls in on himself even further, shoulders hunched over, as though he’s trying to make himself disappear.

“The—my sheets,” he croaks. “They got dirty. I made them—I got them dirty. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, jie, I don’t know how to clean them. I tried to do it, but I didn’t know, and then the stain just got bigger—I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Jie, I’m really sorry.”

“Slow down,” you say gently. “What happened? How’d you get them dirty?”

Caleb hangs his head. “I threw up.”

Now you’re worried. Stomach bug? The flu? He sounds so miserable that for a moment fear grips you—what if it’s serious? Should you take him to the hospital? You press a hand to his forehead, but his temperature is normal. “Are you feeling sick? Does your stomach hurt? We ate the same thing… Was it after dinner?”

Caleb shakes his head. “Not feeling sick anymore,” he says unhappily. “Went away after. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. You hesitantly reach out and stroke his shoulder. “It’s okay, baby, don’t cry.” The endearment slips out without thinking. “Where did you leave the sheets?

“I put it—in the sink,” Caleb croaks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t get it out, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ll—I’ll get a job and I’ll buy a new one. I’m sorry. Jie, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about the sheets, okay? Here, you stay here—” You gently pull him into your bed while shuffling out of your sheets. He lets you, hesitant and afraid, and you wonder if he thinks you’ll punish him. “Still feel like throwing up?” Caleb shakes his head, so you get him a glass of water to rinse his mouth. Small sips, you tell him, and put a little basin next to the bed in case he needs it after all.

You tuck the blanket around him before leaving the side of your bed to go find the dirty sheets. They’re in the sink, just like Caleb said. Poor thing, you think to yourself as you sprinkle baking soda over the fabric. The sheets are soaking wet, as though someone has been desperately scrubbing them until they were at a loss and gave up.

Nothing a little vinegar can’t fix.

How many times have you done this kind of thing, anyway? As grandma got older she required more and more help around the house, until she had to be admitted to someplace where she was able to be taken care of around the clock. She insisted that you don’t drop out of college to be the one to do it. She was a quiet woman, and while you didn’t always feel loved she made sure you had what you needed. You didn’t grow up in abundance, but you also didn’t lack for things, either. It might have been different if you’d had a sibling, maybe, but it was just you. An only child.

You’d said that you wanted to do for Caleb what grandma did for you, but that’s not quite right. You want to love him. You want him to feel loved. You want him to feel like he can always come to you, whether he’s happy or sad. You want him to be free, to be spoiled, to take your support for granted. To rely on you for getting vomit out of his sheets. Blood or sweat or spit—nothing from your little brother really fazes you.

You gather the sheets and put them in the washer, and throw in Caleb’s pillow cover in for good measure. Fortunately there was no spill onto the actual mattress—a relief. He must’ve pulled them off right after he threw up.

After washing your hands you pop your head around the corner of your bedroom. Your nightlight is still on, a little sun shining softly onto Caleb’s sleeping face.

He’s exactly like you left him. You creep closer, intending to turn off the light, but can’t help but linger. You sit down on the edge of your bed and watch your baby sleep.

You’re not sure for how long. You could sit here and look at him all night. I love you, you think to him. I love you. “Sweet dreams,” you say softly, and click off the light. You rise from the bed. You’ll sleep on the couch tonight—you’re pretty sure you have a spare blanket somewhere.

“Don’t go,” a small voice says in the dark.

You pause, surprised. “Did I wake you?” you whisper. “Sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”

“Can I—can you sleep here?”

You hesitate. He’s too old to be sleeping in his sister’s bed. Or his mother’s bed. Or whatever you are to him. A half-stranger still, his life at the mercy of your whims. He looks so small right now, tucked under your blanket, his dark hair brushing over your pillow. He’s still a kid, you think, and your heart breaks a little.

“Okay,” you say gently.

You lie down next to him. He’s still smaller than you, though not for long if his growth spurts keep going the way they have. He faces you, curled up on his side. You smile at him even though you know he can’t see. Isn’t this what you wanted for him? To be a little spoiled? It’s fine. Just for tonight.

You sleep like this, under the same blanket, and wake with Caleb’s head burrowed against your chest, like a little bird desperately huddling for a crumb of warmth in the cold, long night. You don’t scold him. The next morning you teach how him how to wash the sheets. The stain didn’t get out completely, but a second round should do the trick, you tell him.

He copies your every moves perfectly, but his eyes stay downturned. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I should know how to do this stuff already. You shouldn’t have to teach me.”

You smile and nudge his shoulder with your own. “Why not? Aren’t you my little brother?”