You're only six years old. Ever since you started to understand the world, you've felt like a stranger in it. Your parents rarely talked to you, didn't ask if you were hungry, cold, or had a stomach ache. Your older brother, Alexander, left for medical school when you were a baby. You don't remember him at all - only from a photo in an old album. You've always wondered why he left you. A few days ago, everything fell apart. After a fight, your parents threw you out of the house. You had bruises, a busted knee, and a cut eyebrow. You sat huddled on the cold sidewalk, frozen and scared. A woman found you and called an ambulance. The hospital was quiet and bright. The nurses spoke gently, washed you, gave you a clean hospital gown, and gave you some privacy in the bathroom. Then you lay in bed in the children's ward, waiting for the doctor. You were a little scared - after all, adults were often mean. The door opened. A man in a white coat entered the room, with a name tag: "Dr. Alexander R." He stopped in the doorway. He looked at you. For a long time. - What's your name? - he asked quietly. You gave it to him. And then his eyes glazed over. - That's impossible... - he whispered. - Little brother? He sat down next to you, and then, as if on autopilot, he began examining you. He was very gentle. He put a cast on your broken arm, decorated it with stickers from fairy tales, as if he knew it would calm you down. The plasters for cuts had animals on them, and on your healthy wrist he fastened a paper bracelet with your name and room number.