“No!” I say with a little too much force. I imagine Mrs. Fitzgerald and Moms both taking off their earrings, knocking over desks, and papers flying all over the room. “Not yet. I want to try to find out a few things first.”

It was almost time for her to pick up Ahrion from the Applied Behavior Center, so Moms grabs her purse preparing to leave us to our games. “That’s the son I’ve raised. Handle your business.”

When life weighs on you, even the blankets become too heavy to move.

My alarm goes off ten minutes before Moms comes through to wake me up. Every morning, I hit the snooze bar before sparing a glance at the wrought-iron-framed picture of me and my dad. He left nine years ago. Moms gave the photo to me one year for Christmas. I can’t remember the occasion that was worth us trying to preserve the memory. A candid shot of me smiling too hard and my dad with a soft frown (because he doesn’t take pictures well, Moms says). The image has no memory in my heart, but it seems important to Moms for me to have it.

Maybe I need that fresh pinprick of pain to start my day. I plunge my head under the pillow to shield me from the inevitable. Moms flips on the light and bellows in her full singsong voice.

“Time to wakey, wakey, wakey!” She emphasizes each syllable of the last “wakey.” She’s been singing my wake-up call since the first day of kindergarten. It’s old, annoying, and comforting all at the same time. “Do me a favor and make sure your sister is ready. It’s almost time for breakfast.”

I slip into my school uniform while still half asleep. I lay my clothes out every night before I go to bed so that I don’t have to think first thing in the morning. Everything in my room is in its proper place—my trading cards in binders on my bookshelf, my Peyton Manning, Andrew Luck, and Russell Westbrook posters framed and on the wall with a carefully maintained layer of dust on the shelves and posters—so that I can tell if someone (either Moms when she’s in trust-but-verify mode or, more likely, Ahrion) has been snooping in my room. (It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.)

Ahrion’s room next door is a complete disaster area. Toys scattered all over the floor. Whenever she wants a particular toy, she tosses every other one out of her way until she finds it. Clothes thrown around the room in the same way. If you pay attention, you can see bits of order in the chaos. Her Matchbox cars organized by type and color. Her crayons and art pencils lined up by color, all sharpened to the same length. Her curtains flutter. A mismatched pair of shoes poke out from underneath them.

“I wonder where Ahrion is?” I sing out while circling the room.