My brother came home from deployment six months ago. Yesterday, he asked me when the war started.

My brother returned home six months ago.

Everyone said I got my best friend back.

He hugged our mother so tightly she cried into his shoulder. He remembered the neighbors' names. He fixed the squeaky gate Dad had been meaning to repair for years. He sat at the kitchen table and listened to stories he'd already heard a hundred times as if they were brand new.

People change after deployment. That's what everyone told me.

They're quieter.

More patient.

More distant.

I accepted all of it.

The first strange thing happened three weeks after he came home.

He knocked on my bedroom door at exactly 2:13 AM.

I remember the time because I checked my phone before answering.

He stood in the hallway wearing sweatpants and one of Dad's old T-shirts.

Hey, he said.

You okay?

He looked embarrassed.

What year did we get the Labrador?

I blinked at him.

What?

The dog. Molly.

We got her when I was eleven.

He stared at me for a second.

Then he smiled.

Right. Sorry. Weird dream.

He went back to bed.

I forgot about it.

Until it happened again.

A week later.

2:13 AM.

He knocked.

When did Dad quit smoking?

I rubbed my eyes.

You know this.

I know. I just can't remember.

He quit after Mom got sick.

He nodded.

Right.

Then he walked away.

The questions kept coming.

What hospital was I born in?

Who taught me how to ride a bike?

What was Grandma's maiden name?

What movie did we watch the night the power went out in middle school?

Each time, he'd ask like someone double checking details before a test.

Each time, he'd thank me.

Each time, he'd leave.

I started writing the questions down.

Mostly because it was weird.

By the end of the month, I had nineteen of them.

At question twenty-three, I stopped sleeping properly.

Because he asked me something impossible.

2:13 AM.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I opened the door before he could ask.

What?

He looked relieved.

When did Mom stop playing piano?

I stared at him.

Our mom doesn't play piano.

His expression froze.

Just for a second.

Then he laughed.

Of course. Sorry.

He walked away.

I listened to his footsteps retreat down the hallway.

Then stop.

A full minute passed.

I opened my door.

He was still standing there.

Motionless.

Facing the wall.

I whispered his name.

He turned toward me.

You should get some sleep, he said.

Then he went downstairs.

The next morning, I asked Mom if she'd ever played piano.

She laughed.

Absolutely not.

I almost let it go.

Almost.

Instead, I searched through old family photos.

Every birthday.

Every Christmas.

Every graduation.

Something bothered me.

I couldn't figure out what.

Then I found it.

A picture from ten years ago.

Me, Mom, Dad, and my brother at the county fair.

He was wearing his baseball cap backward.

Except.

My brother hated wearing hats backward.

Always had.

I checked another album.

Another photo.

Another backward cap.

Then another.

I dug through dozens of pictures.

Tiny inconsistencies.

A shirt buttoned differently.

Shoelaces tied opposite ways.

A scar on the wrong knee.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing anyone else would notice.

But I noticed.

Because he was my brother.

I knew him.

Didn't I?

That night, I waited outside his room.

2:13 AM.

His bedroom door opened.

He stepped into the hallway.

He wasn't surprised to see me.

You were going to ask another question, I said.

He looked tired

No.

Then where are you going?

He hesitated.

To make sure.

Make sure of what?

He didn't answer.

Instead, he asked quietly:

Do you remember the camping trip by Miller Lake?

We never went camping at Miller Lake.

His eyes widened.

Then narrowed.

I think you did.

No, I said. We didn't.

He stared at me.

You really don't remember?

I can't remember something that never happened.

He looked genuinely frightened.

Not guilty.

Not angry.

Frightened.

I have memories of it, he whispered.

I didn't know what to say.

He rubbed both hands over his face

When I came home, he began.

Then stopped.

Came home from where? I asked.

He lowered his hands.

Deployment.

You've said that.

What deployment?

I laughed.

Then stopped.

Because he wasn't joking.

His face had gone pale.

What war? he asked.

The silence stretched between us.

What war? he repeated.

I couldn't breathe.

You were overseas for eleven months.

Where?

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

I couldn't answer.

Not because I didn't know.

Because suddenly I wasn't sure.

I remembered airport goodbyes.

Phone calls with bad connections.

Holiday care packages.

But the details slid away whenever I tried to hold onto them.

Country.

Unit.

Names.

Gone.

My brother sat down hard on the hallway floor.

I've been asking questions because things don't match, he said softly.

What things?

You.

What?

you remember different versions of our life.

I shook my head.

No.

You said Molly was eleven when we got her.

She was.

He stared at me.

Molly was a German shepherd.

I felt cold all over.

No.

She hated rain, he continued.

Stop.

You broke your arm at thirteen.

Stop,

You've never broken a bone.

I covered my ears.

He stood up too quickly.

We need to leave.

What?

Now.

You're scaring me.

I know.

Tell me what's happening.

His voice shook.

I don't know.

Then he looked toward the living room.

His expression changed instantly.

Mom was standing at the end of the hallway.

I hadn't heard her approach.

She wore her blue bathrobe.

Her hair was perfectly brushed.

She smiled at us.

You boys should be asleep, she said.

It was 2:13 AM.

Neither of us moved.

Mom tilted her head.

What's wrong?

My brother took one step backward.

Then another.

I realized he was trembling.

Mom? I whispered.

She smiled wider.

What year is it? my brother asked.

Mom didn't answer.

What year is it? he repeated.

Her smile never changed.

You boys should be asleep.

Mom,

You boys should be asleep.

The hallway light flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then steadied.

Mom looked at me.

Not my brother.

Me.

you've been remembering again, she said gently.

I don't know why those words terrified me more than anything else that night.

Maybe because of the way she said them.

Like this wasn't the first time.

Like she'd had this conversation before.

My brother grabbed my wrist.

We have to go.

Mom sighed.

You never make it very far.

He pulled me toward the front door.

Behind us, Mom called out in the same warm voice she'd used my entire life.

Don't forget to lock up before you leave.

We ran.

I wish I could tell you what happened after that.

I wish I could tell you where we went.

I wish I could tell you whether the woman in our house was our mother.

But we're sitting in a motel thirty miles away now, trying to write down everything we remember before it changes again.

Every hour, the lists get shorter.

Every hour, details disappear.

We've compared notes three times already.

We can't agree on our father's face.

Neither of us remembers who taught us to drive.

And ten minutes ago, my brother asked me a question that made my stomach drop.

He looked up from his notebook.

His hand was shaking.

Do you remember having a brother?