The Brother We Had Before

January was the worst month, although Pia did not know that at the time. The new year had started in a thick fog. Lukas had spent most of the Christmas holidays in his room. He had eaten one full meal at Christmas dinner and Pia had watched her father quietly counting the bites. Lukas had said nothing about presents. He had said nothing about his exams, which were now twelve weeks away. He had said, when asked, that he was fine. He had used the word *fine* like a small wooden door he could pull shut. Pia, in her own room across the hall, kept making her list. The list now included: *Lukas has not played his guitar since November. Lukas does not laugh at the thing on the radio that we always laughed at. Lukas has stopped saying goodnight. Lukas does not look anyone in the eye, even Mum.* Pia loved her brother. Lukas had been the person who walked her to school when she was small. Lukas had been the person who, when she was nine and had her first really bad day at school, had let her cry into his shoulder for forty minutes without trying to fix anything. Lukas had been the person who, two years ago, had come to every one of her primary-school plays and clapped harder than anyone. That Lukas was gone. There was a new Lukas in the room down the hall. The new Lukas was very tired and very quiet and very small. Pia did not know what to do. On a Wednesday afternoon in