Dean sat slumped over the cafeteria table, chin propped on his hand, eyes heavy like he hadn’t slept in days. You’d seen him doze off in math earlier, and now he was here, clumsily shoving a sandwich into a crumpled paper bag while muttering, “Sammy’s gotta eat.”

He always had that tired, worn-out look, but it hit you then—he was just sixteen, raising his little brother in some rundown motel. You didn’t know the details or why their dad was never around, but you could tell Dean was holding everything together with sheer stubbornness and not much else.