When I wake up, I hear people talking downstairs.
It is not the kind of talking people do when they are arguing. Their voices are lowered, like they are afraid of waking someone. I lie in bed, my eyes not fully open yet, but my ears are already awake.
“...I really can’t get away today. I have a meeting this afternoon...” It is Dad’s voice.
“Me neither. I have a shoot this morning. I can’t get out of it...” It is Mom’s voice.
Then everything is quiet for a few seconds.
“Let Gu Chen stay home,” Dad says.
It is quiet again for a moment.
“Will he be willing?” Mom asks.
“I’ll go talk to him.”
Footsteps come up the stairs. They pass my door without stopping and keep going. Then there is a knock—three very light taps.
“Gu Chen, get up for a minute.”
After a while, my brother’s door opens.
“What?” His voice is hoarse, rough with sleep.
Dad’s voice drops very low, and I can’t make out much. I only hear a few words—“Xia,” “fever,” “today,” “stay home.”
Then my brother says one thing.
“Got it.”
He does not ask why. He does not say no.
Just “Got it.”
Before Mom and Dad leave, Mom comes upstairs to check on me.
She crouches beside the bed and presses a hand to my forehead. Her hand is still cool, but my forehead is not as hot as yesterday.
“Much better,” she says with a sigh of relief. “But don’t go to school today. Stay home and rest.”
I nod.
“Mom and Dad have to go to work, but your brother will stay home with you.” She pulls my blanket up around me. “If you need anything, tell your brother, okay?”
I nod again.
She looks at me, a little worried. Then she lowers her head and kisses my forehead.
“Be good. Mom will be home tonight.”
Then she stands and walks to the door. She looks back at me once before going downstairs.
The front door opens, then closes.
The car starts up. Its sound slowly fades away.
The home suddenly becomes very quiet.
It stays quiet for about ten minutes.
I lie in bed, hugging Boo, listening to the sounds in the house. The refrigerator hums downstairs, very far away. Birds chirp outside the window, one call at a time, unhurried.
Then—footsteps.
They come slowly from the end of the hall, dragging a little. Like he is not fully awake yet, but already walking.
The footsteps stop outside my door.
They stay there for about three seconds.
The door is pushed open.
My brother stands in the doorway. He has changed clothes, but his hair is still messy, and his eyes are still narrowed with sleep. He is holding a cup.
He looks at me.
“You’re awake?”
“Mm.”
He comes in and sets the cup on my nightstand.
“Warm water. Mom said you should drink more.”
I look at the cup. It is not my pink rabbit cup. It is a white mug with a dinosaur printed on it.
It is my brother’s cup.
He probably grabbed it without thinking. But looking at the dinosaur makes me want to smile a little.
“Thank you.”
He does not answer. He turns and leaves.
His footsteps return to the hall, followed by the sound of his bedroom door closing.
Another half hour passes.
I take a few sips of water and lie back down. My body is still soft and weak, without much strength, but I have stopped trembling. My head is still a little dizzy, the way it feels when you get out of a car after riding for a long time.
My stomach gives a low growl.
I put my hand on my belly. I did not eat dinner yesterday, and I did not eat breakfast either. My stomach is empty, but I do not really feel like eating.
But my stomach growls again.
I hesitate.
At the orphanage, when I was hungry, I endured it and waited until mealtime. We were not allowed to go to the kitchen outside mealtimes. We would get scolded.
But Mom once said, “If you’re hungry, tell Mom.”
But Mom is not here.
My brother is.
But I do not know if I can tell my brother, “I’m hungry.”
I bury my face in Boo’s belly.
“Boo,” I whisper. “I’m a little hungry. But...”
But what?
I cannot explain it to myself either.
Another ten-some minutes pass.
The footsteps come again.
This time they do not stop at the door. The door opens right away.
My brother is holding a plate.
He walks to the bed, sets the plate on the nightstand, and moves the dinosaur mug aside.
There are two slices of toast on the plate.
The toast has been cooked until the edges are a little burnt. Jam is spread over it—not very evenly, thick in some places and thin in others, with one corner left untouched.
He stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking at me.
“Eat.”
Just one word.
I sit up and lean against my pillow. I pick up a slice of toast and take a bite.
The jam is strawberry. Sweet, with a little sourness. The toast is a bit hard, but it is crisp when I bite into it, and soft inside.
I chew a few times and swallow.
My stomach feels a little warmer.
“Is it good?” he asks.
He sounds like he is asking just to ask, but his eyes are fixed on the toast in my hand.
“It’s good.”
The corner of his mouth moves. It is not a smile, but it is not not a smile either. Just a tiny movement somewhere in between.
Then he turns and leaves.
When he reaches the doorway, he pauses.
“Just leave the plate when you’re done.”
The door closes.
I look at the toast in my hand and take a second bite.
The jam is unevenly spread, but every bite is sweet.
After I finish the toast, I sleep again.
This time my sleep is very light, like floating on the surface of water. Sometimes I hear sounds—the footsteps of my brother moving through the hall, the faucet turning on and off, and what sounds like pages turning.
He does not come in.
But he stays outside.
I know he is there, so I sleep peacefully.
I wake up in the afternoon.
Sunlight shines in through the edge of the curtains. It is much brighter than in the morning. The room is warm, and the blanket is warm too.
I sit up and notice that the dinosaur mug on the nightstand has been replaced. The water is fresh, and still a little warm.
He came in.
He came in and changed the water while I was asleep.
I lift the mug and take a sip. The water is warm, just the right temperature.
Then I hear a sound.
It is coming from next door.
My brother’s room is next to mine. The walls are not very thick. When everything is quiet, I can hear some sounds.
He is playing the guitar.
It is not a complete song. It is a few notes at a time—he plays a few, pauses, then plays a few more. Like he is practicing a song he has not learned yet.
I hug Boo and lean against the headboard, listening.
The notes are broken and uneven. Sometimes he plays the wrong note and stops to start over. But I think it sounds good.
Not because the melody is beautiful.
Because the sound tells me that someone is on the other side of the wall.
I pull the blanket up to my chin, close my eyes, and listen to the broken, halting notes.
Boo rests against my shoulder, his one almost-falling-off ear crooked.
“Boo,” I whisper. “Big brother is playing the guitar.”
Boo does not answer.
But I think he is listening too.
I do not know how much time passes before the guitar stops.
Then there are footsteps.
The door opens.
My brother leans against the doorframe and looks at me.
“Still running a fever?”
I shake my head.
He walks over and reaches out to touch my forehead. His hand is not as cool as it was last night—or maybe my forehead is not as hot as it was yesterday.
“It’s gone down.” He pulls his hand back. “Anything else bothering you?”
I think about it.
“My head’s a little dizzy.”
This is the first time I have told him on my own that I do not feel well.
After saying it, I feel a little nervous. I do not know how he will respond.
He looks at me for two seconds.
“Then keep lying down.”
He turns to leave.
“Big brother.”
He stops.
This is the first time I have called him that. Not in my head, and not while telling Boo, “Big brother did this” or “Big brother did that.” I am really calling him directly, face-to-face.
He turns his head to look at me.
My mouth opens, but my voice catches.
“...The song just now was really good.”
He freezes for a moment.
Then his ears turn red.
Only his ears. The expression on his face stays the same, barely changing. But the tips of his ears are red.
“The soundproofing is terrible,” he says, then leaves.
He walks faster than usual.
After the door closes, I hear him standing in the hall for a while.
Then his footsteps return to his room.
A few seconds later, the guitar starts again.
This time, it is not the song from before.
It is a complete song.
From beginning to end, there are no breaks and no pauses.
Like he is playing it for someone to hear.
In the evening, the front door opens.
“I’m home—” It is Mom’s voice.
Her footsteps hurry upstairs. She pushes open my door, still carrying the cold air from outside on her face.
“Xia, how are you? Feeling better?” She crouches beside the bed and presses a hand to my forehead.
“Your fever’s gone!” she says with a smile, her eyes curving happily.
Then she turns toward the doorway.
My brother is standing there. I do not know when he arrived. He is leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, in the same position as this morning.
“Did she eat anything?” Mom asks him.
“Yes. She had toast this morning.”
“What about lunch?”
He pauses.
“...I made instant noodles.”
Mom frowns. “How can someone who’s sick eat instant noodles?”
“She said she wanted them.”
Mom looks at me.
I nod. At lunchtime, he came to ask what I wanted to eat, and I said, “Instant noodles.” I did not actually want instant noodles that badly. I just did not know what else to say. But he added an egg to the noodles, and the yolk was still soft. When I poked it, it spilled out, yellow and pretty.
Mom sighs, but the corners of her mouth are turned up.
“Mom will make you some porridge tomorrow.”
She stands and walks to the door. As she passes my brother, she reaches out and pats his head.
“Thanks for taking care of her.”
He tilts his head away and dodges her hand.
“It was nothing.”
But he does not leave right away.
He stands in the doorway and looks at me.
It is a very quick glance.
Then he turns and goes back to his room.
Dad comes home that night too.
He comes upstairs to check on me and takes my temperature—98.96 degrees. Normal.
“You can go to school tomorrow,” he says. “But if you still don’t feel well, rest another day.”
I shake my head.
“I want to go to school.”
Dad looks at me and nods.
Mom makes dinner. She brings me a bowl of soup with egg ribbons, greens, and a few thin slices of meat. I sit on the bed and finish it one sip at a time.
The soup is warm.
The warmth travels all the way from my throat down into my stomach.
Before bed, I put Boo beside my pillow.
His ear is crooked again. I tuck it back into place.
“Boo,” I whisper. “Big brother took care of me today.”
I think about it.
“He made toast for me. He didn’t spread the jam very well, but it tasted good.”
I think some more.
“He played the guitar too.”
Boo’s eyes are round and black as he looks at me.
“He played a whole song.”
I pull the blanket up to just below my nose.
“I think... he was playing it for me to hear.”
After I say this, my face feels a little warm.
Not the kind of warmth that comes with a fever.
Something else.
I bury my face in the blanket and close my eyes.
The other side of the wall is very quiet.
But I know he is there.
He has always been there.