“I built a mousetrap that I think can actually catch mice when I put cheese in it to lure them in but I don’t know what kind of cheese they like yet and I only like the white cheese but maybe they like the yellow cheese or the one with holes but I don’t know where to get that cheese from so I’m going to experiment with the white cheese first.”

“That sounds cool. What are you going to do with the mice you catch?”

“I was thinking I could train them like they train those dogs at the airport that sniff the luggage for drugs and stuff on the conveyer belt but I wouldn’t train them to sniff I would train them to be undercover spies like they have in the CIA.”

“Spies. Wow.” I smiled. I loved the way my brother’s brain worked. While other kids were playing with toys or kicking balls around, he was engineering intricate traps, building solar-powered devices, and making electrical currents from potatoes and lemons. He’s a total genius in so many ways, but ask him to do something simple like brush his teeth and it falls apart; the toothpaste tastes too strong, the water is too wet, the bristles are too hard.

“Maybe I could take the mice to my new school, and they could spy on the people there?” I offered thoughtfully and then watched him for a while, trying to gauge what kind of a mood he was in. It was always hard to interpret his moods. While the angry moods were easy to read, the subtler emotions in between were trickier. But his shoulders were relaxed, he wasn’t flapping or clicking his fingers, he was eating, so I broached the subject tentatively. “How was school today? Did you try to escape again?”

“It was better,” he mumbled. “Escaping was not necessary.” He shoved another spoonful into his mouth and I smiled to myself with relief.

“Maybe I could make microscopic cameras that we could strap onto the mice’s heads that no one can see and they can film everything that happens at your school and then we could download it onto my computer and watch it like a movie and make popcorn,” he said through a mouthful of ice cream.

I laughed. I wanted to pull him into a hug, or kiss him on the cheek, but didn’t. He’s not great with touching; you can only touch him if he initiates it. Sometimes I crave any kind of physical contact with him.

“Ice cream in the afternoon!” We both looked up as my mother swanned in. “Not very nutritious,” she added. “Besides, milk is not actually good for us. It’s basically antibiotic-laden pus. You should google it.”