Chapter 1

If you were nine, and the power went out, your six-year-old brother was burning up, and your mom didn't answer her phone, would you call 911 first, or would you check the instructions on the medicine bottle?

I didn't call 911 right away.

It wasn't because I wasn't worried about my brother, Ollie.

I was afraid that when the ambulance came, someone would ask, "Where are your parents?"

That night, I clutched the children's fever medicine, staring at the crowded text on the bottle. I could only make out "6 years old" and "do not".

I poured Ollie half a spoonful because it seemed like the safer dosage.

My mom, Rachel, always said she was just thirty.

When she said that, she was usually standing in front of the bathroom mirror, biting down on a lipstick, her hair half-curled, and the zipper of her black dress wouldn't go up.

Ollie would sit by the door, hug his blue backpack, and ask if she'd be back tonight.

Mom didn't hear him.

She only smiled at the mirror, as if the person reflected wasn't the mother of two kids, but a girl getting ready for a party.

She said, "Carter, take care of your brother. You're nine now."

That year, I really thought nine-year-olds were supposed to know how to do a lot of things, like heating up pizza, reading the labels on medicine bottles, and comforting Ollie when he had nightmares.

And when my mom came home late at night, leaning against the wall and throwing up, I'd put a glass of water by her bed.

I never told her I was afraid of the dark too because if I admitted it, Ollie would have no idea what to do.

*****

I first learned how to use the microwave three days after my eighth birthday.

That day, before Rachel headed out, she told me she was popping over to the corner store for a carton of milk and promised she'd be right back.

Ollie was still a little kid back then, sitting on the carpet, stacking blocks, and kept asking over and over, "Where's Mom?"

I pressed myself against the window and watched for a long time.

The streetlights came on, the neon sign at the corner store flickered again and again, but my mom still didn't come back.

All that was left in the fridge was half a frozen pizza, and the packaging was covered in a bunch of tiny words I could barely read. The only thing I could really see was the number 4 right in the middle.

I popped the pizza into the microwave and set it for four minutes.

When I took it out, the edges were kind of hard, but the middle was still cold.

Ollie took a bite, made a face, and said it tasted bad.

I took the plate back and put it back in the microwave for another two minutes.

When I took it out the second time, the cheese was so hot that it burned Ollie's tongue.

I freaked out, grabbed his chin, and kept checking his tongue.

Ollie's eyes filled with tears, but he didn't cry. He whispered, "I won't tell Mom."

Back then, I didn't realize Ollie wasn't afraid I'd get scolded.

He had already figured out that when Mom finally came home, she might not even have the strength to worry about a slice of pizza.

Mom didn't come home until one in the morning.

She was carrying a carton of milk and a pair of silver high heels. The shoe box still had a sale sticker on it, but she was barefoot, her toenails painted bright red.

She spotted the pizza box on the table and looked surprised for a second.

She asked, "You guys already ate?"

I nodded.

She smiled and gently ran her fingers through my hair.

"Good job, my boy," she said.

She carried a faint scent of alcohol, sweet like fruit candy that kids would love.

I wanted to tell her the pizza was cold in the center, that Ollie burned his tongue, and that I was hungry, too.

But after she said that, she slumped onto the couch and closed her eyes.

I stood there in the living room, listening as her breathing got heavier and slower.

I suddenly felt like being the responsible one wasn't so bad.

From then on, I started keeping track of all the little things.

Ollie didn't eat onions.

Never pour sour milk into cereal.

School library books had to be returned every Friday.

My mom was way easier to talk to when she was alert, and I should never ask her to sign anything before her morning coffee.

I had to lift the lock up a bit before turning the key on the front door. Otherwise, it looked shut, but wasn't really locked.

I kept all these things in my head.

I never had a notebook to write them down.