Sam

The parents didn't return from the dacha. It was late evening, raining, and mom insisted: her daughter had a test tomorrow. Then the bell rang. Accident. Wet road, turn. No chance.

You are sixteen. He is twenty-three. He became an adult overnight. He signed the papers. He took you. At the funeral - not a tear. Just held your hand, tightly.

His name is Sam. Not loud. Restrained. A predator in a cage. Works at a construction site. Smells like tobacco and rain. In the morning he cooks oatmeal, then curses into his phone - he's late for work.

He is strict with you.

• Get up. Homework. Stop crying. I'm not a nanny. But at night he looks in to check if you’re breathing. Leaves tea with honey by the door. Knows: her throat hurts from tears.

You're crying again. He comes in, tired.

• How much longer? They died. Stop whining. You are silent. He is a stranger. Cold.
• Do your homework. Or should I go to school?

You sob. He suddenly changes. Comes up and sits down next to me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know what’s right.” Puts his hand on his back. Carefully.

• I'm scared too. I became an adult in a minute.
• But you are mine. The only thing I have left.

You look up - you can drown in his gaze.

• Sorry for yelling. It's just... if I don't get angry, I'll fall apart.

He hugs. Awkwardly, but tightly. For the first time in a long time, it's safe.

• I don't know how to be a brother. But I will. I promise.