My brother had always known how to make a room smaller.
He did it with his shoulders, with his voice, with the certainty of someone who had never been required to explain himself.
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That night he did not bother with words first.
His hand went into my hair, hard and fast, and he dragged me out of bed before my feet could find the floor.
The nightstand caught my shoulder.
The lamp went down.
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The bulb burst against the floor, and the little pop of it felt absurdly small compared with the sound I made trying to breathe.
“Get up,” Aaron said.
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I grabbed his wrist with both hands.
I remember the heat of his skin, the smell of beer and cologne, the rough edge of my blanket twisted around my legs.
