After his last class before spring break, Sean swings by his apartment to grab his backpack. He shoves his sketchbook inside, and as he is walking out his bedroom door, he sees the sketchbook, the one from his other life, sitting on his desk.

He has a flight to catch. He doesn't have time to dawdle. But he hesitates, and he can't walk through the door until he shoves this other sketchbook into his bag.

# # #

Sean boards his flight, survives a miserable layover at O'Hare, endures hours of a baby screaming in the seat behind him, and finally lands in Seattle. Even though he has talked to his father almost every day for the past three months, Dad being there to pick him up—Dad being alive—still punches his heart. Like at Christmas, Sean's hug is so tight that his old man's bones pop, but this time, Sean doesn't cry. Maybe, finally, he is getting used to life being okay.

When Sean and his father walk upstairs into their house, Daniel is at the kitchen counter, leaning over a round cake decorated with green and blue icing. "It's about time," Daniel says. "Dad wouldn't let me have my cake or open the package you sent until you got here. He basically said I couldn't turn sixteen without you. I thought I was going to be stuck being fifteen forever."

Sean chuckles, sets his backpack on the floor, and walks up to his brother to pull him into a hug. It doesn't matter if Daniel doesn't want one; Sean needs to give him one.

But, though there's some awkwardness, Daniel actually hugs him back.

Sean presses his face into Daniel's neck. The kid's hair is wet, and he smells like body wash. But he doesn't squirm away, not even when Sean holds him by the shoulders to take a better look at him.

Jesus, the kid has grown, like, two inches since Christmas. Sean isn't 100% sure who the taller Diaz brother is now. However, though Daniel has the height of a man, it's striking how his face is still that of a little boy's.

Today, Sean's little brother is sixteen; sixteen was the last time Sean was a kid. With one cop's bullet, Sean Diaz's innocent, naïve little life was shattered, and he had to become an adult. Immediately. Is this how he looked back then? When they were on the run and sleeping in the cold? Was he really this much of a child when he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders?

Those first few months, when he was sure Daniel was dreaming, Sean would cry himself to sleep over missing track and Lyla and getting high with his friends and going to concerts, and eventually, he knew it was dumb to cry over all of that because he would never have it back. When he gave himself up at the border, he knew things wouldn't be okay. He knew he would go to jail. He had promised not to lie to Daniel ever again, but he's pretty sure he lied to Daniel when he said that it would be all right.

Since things were fucked for him, the only thing that mattered was giving Daniel a normal life. A life where Daniel got to experience awkward makeouts and worrying about GPAs and late nights listening to a favorite song and getting his heart broken and all of those bittersweet, wonderful things about being a kid that Sean had ripped away from him.

Seeing his brother, standing here, sixteen and getting to be a normal kid in a normal life—it makes all of the bullshit worth it.

Every fucking scar.

Every fucking bruise.

Every sleepless night.

Every lost eye.

All of it. Worth it.

"Happy birthday, hermanito," Sean says.

"Thanks, bro," Daniel says, and he wipes at his cheek.

It takes Sean a moment to realize it's a signal to him, that he's the one with a single tear sliding down his face.

Daniel gestures to a box by the front door. "So, can I open this present now?"

As Dad is saying yes, Sean picks up the box, which is about the size of his torso, and sets it on the counter next to the cake.

Daniel rips through the tape with the car keys Dad hands him. Inside is another package, this one wrapped in what is technically Christmas paper because it was the cheapest at Sean's Target. When Daniel shreds through it, he lifts up . . . "A backpack?"

"It's like mine," Sean says, pointing to his bag on the floor. But not only is it the same as the backpack he brought from Savannah, it's like the one Brody gave them when they were on the road. That fucking backpack came to be everything when Sean was carrying his entire world on his shoulders. "I know it's kind of a weird gift, but I figured you could use it on this trip. And after you graduate high school, you might travel or go off to school, and it's just good to have something dependable to keep your stuff with you. Mine's been . . . a real life-saver."

"I like it. It's cool." Daniel says, turning it over. Something inside rustles. He unzips one of the compartments, dumps the bag, and twenty Choco-Crisps fall out. "Dude! Awesome! Thanks!"

"The other surprise is that I drew a penis on your bag," Sean laughs, "but I'm not going to tell you where."

Sean shows Daniel all the different compartments and explains how he organizes things in the backpack while Dad starts inserting candles into the birthday cake. And Sean's heart feels warm because Daniel actually likes the present. He's actually done something right with his brother in this life.

That's when Sean notices all of the grocery bags covering their dinner table. There are about ten of them, and they seem to be full of food and snacks. There's also a giant case of bottled water, a cooler, and two of their old sleeping bags.

"What's all this?" Sean asks.

"Supplies for our trip," Daniel says. "Dad kind of freaked out at the store because he doesn't think we can take care of ourselves."

"Well, we have never been on our own before," Sean laughs.

"The worst part, though," Daniel says, "is that Dad wouldn't buy us any tequila. Now, I ask you—is it really a wild, spring break road trip without the tequila?"

"I know your brother intends to be nothing but a good influence and role model," Dad says. He has finished sticking the candles into the cake, and he's opening and closing drawers, searching for a lighter. "Sean would never let my sweet, innocent baby boy do something as morally corrupt as drink alcohol."

"That's true," Daniel says, smirking. "He'll probably just shove weed in my mouth and try to use me as a bong."

"Okay," Sean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "First, think about the words you are saying. If I used you as a bong, where would I put my mouth? That is so gross, dude. And second, you and Dad act like I am just a total 'four-twenty-blaze-it stoner', but I have never smoked as much pot as you think I do."

"My son, I don't think that Febreeze is the miracle spray you thought it was in high school," Dad says.

Daniel makes a show of inhaling deeply. "And I can smell it on you right now, bro."

Sean rolls his eyes. But then his Dad says that he can't find anything to light the candles, so Sean goes to his backpack and pulls out his Puerto Lobos lighter.

"You snuck a lighter through airport security?" Daniel says. "Not really doing a lot to clear your character, stoner boy."

Sean gives his brother a shove, Daniel laughs, and Sean lights the candles on the birthday cake. And, even though Sean is the butt of all of the jokes, it's still good to be home. It's good to have a dad and brother to make jokes about him.

# # #

After they demolish the cake and clean up, Daniel goes to his room to pack his new backpack for their road trip, and Sean sits down with his dad on the couch.

"It seems like Daniel had a pretty good birthday," Sean says.

"This was his first good day in a while," Dad says. "I might make him an appointment with Dr. Martinez after you boys get back."

Sean knows that name. The fog on his memories has mostly cleared, but he still has to concentrate to pull her up. She's the doctor Dad took him to during his first year of art school, when he was home during winter break. She gave him the prescription for his anxiety medication. "Do you think Daniel is depressed or something?"

"He seems . . . sad is not the right word," Dad says. "It is like the light inside him has dimmed a little."

Sean rubs his hands together, picks at his thumbnail. In the other life, Daniel isn't perfectly happy—who could be after everything?—but he doesn't have a dim light. In fact, he's pretty confident. Sometimes annoyingly so. Some things would have been so much easier if Daniel had just done what Sean said instead of doing his own thing.

"Do you think it has to do with me?" Sean asks.

"Why would Daniel's depression, if he has it, have something to do with you?" Dad asks.

Sean shrugs. "We got into a couple of fights when I was up for Christmas, and I know he feels like we're not really close and that he can't count on me. Maybe if, I dunno, if I had been there for him, been a better brother, maybe he would feel better about himself."

Dad sighs. "Sean, that is a bad way to think. It is selfish and self-centered."

Sean cringes. Self-centered. That's what people think he is here. Someone who isn't reliable, doesn't put the people he cares about first. He heard it from Toby and from Daniel. Lyla, too, sort of. It hurts most to hear it from his dad, though.

He feels Dad's hand on his shoulder.

"The world does not revolve around you, mijo," Dad continues. "If something bad happens, that does not mean it is your fault or that it is your responsibility. Your brother is sad right now, but that does not mean it is something you did. You cannot take the weight of everything on your back. If you do that, you will not be able to carry anything because your back will be broken."

Sean nods, sniffles. Ends up sitting there under the weight of his father's hand, which doesn't feel heavy, but like it's actually making the weight he's been carrying since he was sixteen lighter.

"If anything, you might have a chance to help your brother feel better about things," Dad says. "Let me say this, officially, as both yours and Daniel's father: Do not let Daniel drink or smoke marijuana. And you, Sean, should smoke a lot less than you do."

"Come on." Sean rolls his eyes. "I'm not that big of a stoner."

"Sure, sure," Dad says. "However, unofficially . . . I remember being young. When I was fourteen, my older cousin let me have my first beer. It is a good memory I have of him. I do not think it would be bad if Daniel had memories like that of you."

"Wait, wait . . . let me get this straight," Sean says. As Dad's words sink in, he leans back into the corner of their sectional and crosses his arms. "You spend my whole life being like 'Sean, you have to be responsible for your brother, mijo,' and now you're telling me to get him totally plastered?"

"I did not say that," Dad says, raising his finger. "I implied that sometimes trouble can bring you closer to someone and that I think it would be good for you to be closer to your brother. And I know you are a good man, Sean. I trust your judgment."

"I can't believe you're the same guy who reamed me out when you found my weed in high school," Sean says.

"You would be surprised at how often I was pretending to be angrier than I was. I just wanted you to turn out okay."

"I hope I did," Sean says. He feels a heaviness in his heart, one like the sadness he felt in prison. "Thanks, by the way. For saying I'm a good man."

"You are," Dad says. "You have always made me proud, but this year in particular, you seem to have grown up a lot in a short time. I was surprised when you said you wanted to go find your mother. It is good for you to try to let go of your anger with her. However, I worry that . . . I want you not to get your hopes up too high before you meet her again."

"Don't worry, Dad," Sean says. "I'm not expecting her to hug me and start crying or to say she's 'sorry' or even that she missed me. I just want her to know that we're okay. And that it would be nice to have some kind of relationship with her, you know?"

Dad nods. "How did you find her?"

"That's a long story."

"We have time."

"I, uh, have a friend at school who is good at looking people up," Sean says, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Is that the truth?"

"Uh, yeah. . . ."

"Have you spoken with your mother?"

"No . . . "

"Sean, I am not going to feel betrayed if the answer is yes."

"I haven't!" Sean says, and it is technically true. Even though he just spoke to her in person a few months ago, in this timeline, he hasn't seen her since he was eight.

"Why is it so important to keep this a secret from me?" Dad asks, and there's a wounded look in his eyes.

Sean sighs. "You know how, over Christmas, we talked about how a bunch of bad things happened? And that I wasn't ready to talk about them? Something happened in there that made me not want to be angry at Mom anymore. And I am still not ready to talk to you about it, even though I want to. I wish I could tell you everything."

"You can, you know. Tell me everything."

"I know. I just . . . can't. Not yet. Is that okay?"

"It is okay," Dad says, and he reaches over Sean to pull him into a hug. "Whatever happened, I can tell it is eating at you. If you will not talk to me about it, you should talk to someone. Are you going to therapy?"

"I don't have time for therapy."

"Have you talked to any of your friends? What about that boy who is your boyfriend but 'not-really' your boyfriend?"

"Dad, come on, Toby isn't—I haven't talked to Toby about this, either."

"Well, then, how about your brother?"

Sean laughs. Then he realizes his dad is serious. "Daniel? He's a kid. I'm the big brother. I'm supposed to look after him, and he has his own stuff going on. I can't dump this on him."

"Your brother is growing up," Dad says. "And, I know it seems odd, but sometimes having a chance to be strong for someone else allows you to be strong for yourself."

Sean almost laughs. How many times did he focus on being strong for Daniel so he could ignore how absolutely fucking terrified he was himself?

"You know, your mother leaving was . . . it was hard on me," Dad says quietly. "I don't know how well I was able to keep it together for you, but having you to be strong for—it helped. It kept me from becoming unraveled by my sadness. I tried to do the same for you. I put a lot of responsibility on you for Daniel, not just because I couldn't do this alone, but because I hoped that being strong for your hermanito would help you be strong for yourself. I do not know if that was always the right thing. Maybe kids should not have to be strong. Maybe I should not have put that on your shoulders. Then, mijo, you would not be trying to break your back by taking on everything."

Sean's father suddenly clasps his hands together, stares at them. His eyes look far away.

It's weird to see Dad not be Superman. And even weirder, an old feeling in Sean's chest flares up like an ember. He isn't sure what it is. Anger? Resentment? Why would he feel that about his dad?

"Hey, Dad, you did good, okay?" Sean says, pushing the feeling back down. "You already said I was a good man. That means you did good, right?"

"I suppose you are right," Dad says, his voice still distant.

"So is there anything you want me to say to Mom?" Sean says, changing the subject. "If we find her, that is?"

Dad stares off for a long time, so long that Sean almost believes his father has not thought about this every day for fifteen years. "Tell her that I hope she found what she was looking for. And that it would make me happy to know that she is happy as well. And that I am . . . sorry for the things I said, the last time we spoke. And that if she wanted to be a part of our lives, then that would not be so bad."