The garage fan whirred uselessly against the August heat. Dyxan wiped sweat from his brow, his hands black with engine grease, and glared at Ness through the open doorway. The kid was crouched in the driveway again, poking at a dead beetle with a stick. Twelve years old and still acts like a toddler, Dyxan thought. Their father’s voice hissed in his memory: “You’re the only one who doesn’t embarrass me.” He’d said it last night over dinner, right after Ness spilled his water trying to read the menu. Again.

Inside the house, a textbook smacked the floor. Dyxan didn’t need to look to know Ness had thrown it—another meltdown over homework. Their dad was out on a tow call, so the screaming wouldn’t start yet. But Dyxan’s skin prickled anyway. He stormed in, kicking the doorframe. “Stop being a baby,” he snarled. Ness sat cross-legged by the couch, his face blotchy, letters swimming on the page in front of him. Dyslexia, the school kept saying. Dyxan didn’t buy it. Words didn’t just dance.

“I’m trying,” Ness muttered, pressing his palms into his eyes.

“Try harder.” Dyxan grabbed the book, his thumb leaving a smudge on the paragraph about planets. “It’s easy. Mercury. Venus. Earth. How stupid do you have to be to—”

“I’m not stupid!” Ness lunged, knocking the book back. It hit Dyxan’s chest, and for a second, they both froze. Then Dyxan laughed—cold, sharp.

“Prove it,” he said. “Read this. Right now.”

Ness’s throat tightened. The letters blurred into hieroglyphics. M-A-R-S. Was that Mars? Or arms? No, arms is A-R-M… His eyes burned. Dyxan hovered over him, waiting.

“M-M…”

“Pathetic.” Dyxan tossed the book onto the couch. “You’re just lazy. Dad’s right—you’ll never be worth shit.”

The words carved into Ness like a rusted knife. He didn’t move, even after Dyxan slammed back outside.

 

Their father returned at dusk, smelling of whiskey and gasoline. Dyxan straightened the tool racks, tense as a wire. Be perfect. Be useful. The old man inspected the garage, grunting approval at the spotless floors. Then he noticed the dent in the customer’s sedan.

“Who did this?” he barked.

Dyxan’s stomach dropped. He’d told Ness not to play near the cars. But there it was—a fist-sized crater in the door, courtesy of a stray baseball.

“Ness,” Dyxan said quickly. Too quickly.

Their dad’s face darkened. He stormed into the house, where Ness was hiding in the pantry, chewing dry cereal. The boy’s protests were cut short by a yank to the collar. Dyxan watched from the hall, his chest throbbing with something bitter and sour. Good, he told himself. Let him learn.

But when Ness’s head cracked against the wall, Dyxan’s breath hitched. His brother didn’t cry. Just stared at the floor, vacant, as their father ranted about respect. Dyxan’s fingers dug into the doorframe. This is your fault, he wanted to scream at Ness. Why can’t you just be normal?

 

Later, Dyxan found Ness’s sketchbook under the couch. He almost threw it away—another of the kid’s distractions—but flipped it open. The pages exploded with color: superheroes with upside-down logos, planets labeled in wobbly block letters. MRAS, one said beneath a red sphere. SUNE under a golden star. Dyxan’s chest tightened.

A floorboard creaked. Ness stood in the doorway, eyes red-rimmed. “Give it back.”

Dyxan hesitated. “You spelled Mars wrong.”

“I know.” Ness’s voice was flat. “Letters get mixed up. Like you and Dad get mixed up about me.”

Dyxan shoved the sketchbook at him. “Whatever.”

But that night, lying awake, he replayed the drawings. The care in every stroke. The time it must’ve taken. Down the hall, Ness’s light stayed on, casting a thin yellow stripe under the door.