Swallowed by a growing shadow, I absentmindedly whirl around, still processing our unexpected arrival at Dad’s doorstep today. Joshie towers over me with his beaming smile, dangling my Pooky Bear like a locket. He always does. Normally, I sigh, “We’re too old for dolls,” haunted by judgments from people too thoughtless to understand him. But tonight is different. I reach for my autistic brother’s hand. For the first time, he doesn’t jolt, finally tolerating my contact. I’m careful not to touch any bruises—the whispers of abuse he endured from our mother, the lengths he went to defend his baby sister.