“I’m back!” I call when I get home.

“In here!” my mother calls. I find her in her room surrounded by orderly piles of her own summer wardrobe, an open suitcase on her bed. “How did it go?” she asks.

I ignore her question. “Don’t worry, I’m going to pack now,” I tell her.

“It’s fine, Milla,” she says. “I already did it for you.”

“What? Why?” I protest. “I said I would do it myself.”

“Well, I didn’t know when you’d be home, and I wanted it done and done.” She swipes her hands each time she says “done.” “And done neatly. So just say thank you.”

“Oh,” I say. “Thanks. I guess.” I look out the window. It was still light just a few minutes ago when I was walking home, but the winter day is already turning to a dark blue dusk.

My mother has turned her attention back to packing. “I’ll go find Max,” I say.

“He’s in his bedroom,” my mother says without looking up from the blouse she is crisply refolding.

I find Max lying on his bed on his stomach playing a video game, his tablet glowing in the dark. I turn on his light for him, and he glances over his shoulder, his face lighting up when he sees it’s me. Or what I can see of it anyway. He is wearing the blue-and-yellow coveralls of a movie character, complete with yellow bathing cap and goggles.

“Hey, Max. No space ranger today?”

“In the wash,” he says. “Mom said he needed to be clean or we couldn’t take him to Florida.” I notice his small suitcase open against the dresser, his clothes neatly folded inside.

“Good idea,” I say with a smile. It occurs to me that, like Mrs. Wine, Max also has a uniform. And Max even likes to keep his head covered too. I laugh when I think of my comparison.

“What’s so funny?” Max says.

“Nothing,” I say, still smiling. “Want me to help you build your new Lego?”

He springs off his bed. “Really, Milla? Sure! Daddy said it’ll have to wait until we get back from Miami because he doesn’t have time, but we could do it together now!” He’s dragging me over to the little table in his room and holding the instructions booklet out to me before I can blink. “Look!”

I sit down on one of the low red wooden chairs at the table where the Lego airplane my parents got him for Chanukah is all laid out in closed bags, waiting for someone to help him get started. I turn the instruction booklet to page one.

“Okay, let’s get scissors and open the first bag.”

“It’s going to be so cool! Right, Milla?” he says, fetching blue plastic kid’s scissors from his desk.

“You bet,” I say. “Maybe when it’s done, my dolls can go on a plane ride.” I reach out and adjust his goggles, pushing them on top of his yellow-bathing-capped head. Whatever his costume—or uniform—it’s always nice to see my brother’s face.