Page 124 of The Story of You

He got two days off per week, but they usually called him in for one and we couldn’t afford him turning down overtime. Not with the apartment cost, which was highway robbery for the dump it was. But the only places that rent apartments to a teenager who’s clearly grown out his beard in an attempt tonotlook like a teenager, aren’t good ones.

That day, I tried to will myself off the mattress we’d bought for our bed and do some cleaning, but it wasn’t happening. I didn’t want Silas doing it. He slept even less than I did, but if he saw the state of the place, he’d forgo even more sleep to clean. I read a study in the New York Times recently that said humans go insane when they miss too much sleep—if only I’d had access to information like that then. I don’t know how either of us made it.

I couldn’t move. My heavy eyelids shut. When I opened them, the door to the apartment was open and Oliver was gone. I didn’t know real fear until that moment. Sliding into my new shoes—new to me, I’d found a sweet pair of Converse at the thrift store to replace the ones I’d outgrown—I raced out the door.

We were on the third floor of an old apartment building in a bad neighborhood. I was supposed to have locked the door, but my brain wasn’t fucking working properly. Another side effect of lack of sleep combined with severe fucked-up-ness from having a piece of shit father who got rid of you. I zoned out sometimes.

Looking right to left to detect any sign of Oliver, I spotted a pale pink stuffed rabbit, cotton limbs sprawled like a victim in a crime scene. All that was missing was the chalk and yellow tape. “Fuck, Brix. I wish you could talk right now.”

My mind filled with the worst. Someone had taken Oliver and we were never going to see him again. Then Silas would bury me alive after he broke every bone in my body and I’d deserve it.

But then I heard a laugh. One I’d know anywhere. It trickled out from apartment three oh three. The door was cracked. I busted in without knocking. Oliver was there with an older lady. She wasn’t Hindu like Lakshan is, she was Sikh. She had a cat. Oliver was in love with it.

The woman wasn’t surprised that a deranged teenager had stormed into her apartment. “This belongs to you?” she said.

“Darry!” Oliver said, a lot happier to see me than when he was telling me off earlier.

“You can’t take off like that, Oliver. Yes, he’s mine. My brother.” I grabbed Oliver who whined over his loss of cat. I wanted to smack him but didn’t. Time out. That’s what he’d get. Or maybe I’d actually refuse him his coveted mac and cheese. He gets this damn lip tremble though, when he knows I’m pissed at him or when he really wants something from me, and I can’t say no. Not when I’m proud of the subtle manipulation and a sucker for it at the same time.

“I’ve seen you around.” She had a deep accent.

“Thank you so much for taking care of him at,” I checked the time on her clock, “four in the morning.”

Her lips were crisp. Her eyes analyzed me. I didn’t know if it was good or bad. “You may call me Mrs. Sharma. What may I call you?”

“Darius.” I was so relieved to have Oliver back, I would have told her everything.

“You’re lucky I came upon him first. Lots of children go missing around here.”

I nodded, squeezing the fuck out of him, my eyes prickling with tears. My mind still racing with thoughts of someone taking Oliver away. “I can’t thank you enough. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“Do you like curry, Darius?”

“Never tired it before.”

“Let me make you some. I’ll drop it by tomorrow.”

Counting my fucking blessings, I brought Oliver back to the apartment, locked the door behind me, and concocted how I was going to tell Silas about this because I would have to, and he was going to lose his goddamn mind. There would be other things down the road I’d attempt to keep from him but keeping something that big about Oliver was the line we didn’t cross.

Silas came in the door at eight am like always—unless he got asked to work overtime, but he usually let me know if he did—and he knew something was up.

Oliver launched himself at Silas. I prepared to possibly give up my right to breathe air.

“There’s no good way to say this so I’m just going to say it. I lost Oliver tonight.”

Silas turned his robot death glare on me. “Run that by me again?”

“You heard. I lost Oliver. But before you murder me, hear me out.”

“You’re protected for the moment. I have Oliver. Choose your words carefully.”

“I’m not a machine like you. I can’t keep up on so little sleep. My brain isn’t working, and I left the door unlocked.”

There. It was out in the open. I rambled on about Mrs. Sharma. I left out the part about Brix by himself in the hallway—Brix was a fucking member of the family by then and we’d be keeping that to ourselves.

I watched the calm horror washing over my brother and though it was an accident, the guilt overwhelmed me. I wasn’t a nail biter—still not—but I chewed them as I waited for Silas to rock Oliver to sleep. I fidgeted. I paced. I tugged my now shorter Randall hair.

When Oliver was sound asleep—the little shit, falling asleep immediately for Sye, never for me—Silas moved from the area where the mattress was to the small kitchen. It was a bachelor style apartment so no bedrooms—the living room was the bedroom—it was very cozy living. Annoying fucking living most of the time. It’s why we own a Pharoah’s tomb now. Just because I’m more nomadic than my brothers, doesn’t change that I need a place to call home with them too.