“Ah,” I moan. “In. Just hold it in.”

But I can’t. I can’t catch my breath. With all the strength I have left, I lift myself up and over the bathtub rim and slide down into it, crashing onto the bottom, my shoulder twisting and my head rapping against the hard surface. Cold stars flash across my vision for a brilliant moment, but then they’re gone and all that’s left is my constricted chest in this shaking house.

I curl up my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around my legs, and wait for it to stop.

I DON’T know how long I’ve been in here, but it can’t be more than minutes. My shoulder still smarts and my chest is still tight and I still can’t think clearly. I still can’t think rationally. I can’t stop shaking because I’m cold. My skin feels like ice. My teeth won’t stop chattering.

There’s a knock at the door.

Go away. Go away.

“Tyson? You in there?”

Bear.

I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, that I’ll be out shortly, but all that comes out is a weird croak. Get it together. Now. This is not you. You are better than this.

I clear my throat. I wrap my arms tighter around me. “Yeah, I’m in here,” I say, my voice high. I cough. “I’ll b-be out in a b-bit.”

Silence.

Then: “What are you doing?”

“I’m in the b-b-bathroom.”

“You sound funny.”

“Thanks. Can you l-leave me alone?” My voice comes out like I’m begging, and I can’t stop it.

“Your voice,” he says.

I wait.

“It’s echoing.”

I say nothing.

“Ty?” He sounds pained. “Are you in the bathtub?”

I twist to lie on my back so my voice rises instead of hitting the sides of the tub. “No. Jesus, Bear, go away.” Leave me alone. Just leave me alone. I take a shallow breath. It hurts.

“No,” he says, and I groan. “I’m not leaving until I see you.”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I snap at him.

“You forget.”

“What?”

“That I know you. I know you better than anyone.” He opens the door. I close my eyes and try to collapse in on myself so I’ll just disappear. I try to stop shaking but I can’t, because I am so fucking cold.

“No,” he moans. “Ty? Oh, honey, oh please.”

It only takes him a second before he’s in the tub with me, curled up against my back, pulling me into his arms, wrapping himself around me. It’s a bit of a struggle; we don’t fit in here like we used to when I was just a little guy. But somehow, someway, he makes it work, like he always does.

“What’s wrong?” he asks me, trying to warm me. “What happened?”

The worry in his voice is almost my undoing. The anger on my behalf is almost my breaking point. God, does he know how strong he is? How solid? I am nothing like him. I am weak and scared and little. I want to be like my brother, but I don’t know how. I don’t even know where to start.