Pre-evolution times

  The boy remembered very little of his earliest years. Fragments only—a cramped room that smelled of mold and cigarettes, shouting voices from the hallway, and hunger. Always hunger. Nothing coherent, nothing that formed a complete picture. Perhaps it was better that way.

  What he did remember, with perfect crity, was the night his little brother was born.

  He had been sleeping on his pile of bnkets in the corner of the apartment's single bedroom when his mother's screams woke him. At first, he thought it was just another bad night—she had those sometimes, writhing and shrieking as whatever she'd injected made her see things that weren't there. But this was different. These screams had purpose.

  He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He was small for his age—whatever that age might be—with dark hair that hung in his eyes and clothes that had been washed in the sink so many times they'd faded to uncertain colors.

  "Kid! Get in here!" His mother's voice cracked with pain and something else—fear, maybe.

  He padded barefoot into the kitchenette where his mother y on the floor, propped against the refrigerator. Her skin was waxy in the harsh fluorescent light, her eyes wide and unfocused. A thin sheen of sweat covered her forehead, pstering strands of dirty blonde hair to her skin.

  "Something's coming out," she gasped, her hands clutching her swollen belly. "Something's wrong."

  The boy stood frozen, uncertain what to do. He'd seen his mother in many states—high, drunk, unconscious—but never like this. Her legs were spread, her dress hiked up around her waist, and there was blood. So much blood.

  "Call someone!" she screamed, then groaned as another contraction hit.

  The boy knew there was no one to call. The phone had been disconnected months ago, and even if it hadn't been, who would he call? His mother had made it very clear that authorities meant trouble. Police, social workers, doctors—they were all people to be avoided.

  "Get me water," she gasped. "And towels."

  He ran to do as she asked, filling a chipped mug with tap water and grabbing the cleanest towel he could find. When he returned, something was happening. Something was emerging from between his mother's legs.

  "It's a fucking baby," his mother said, half-ughing, half-crying. "I forgot I was pregnant. How fucked up is that?"

  The boy watched, transfixed, as a tiny head appeared, then shoulders. His mother gave one final, guttural push, and suddenly there was a small, slippery being lying on the linoleum between her legs, still attached to her by a pulsing cord.

  "Cut it," she said, her voice weak. "Use the scissors from the drawer."

  With shaking hands, the boy fetched the scissors—rusty, like everything else in the apartment—and cut where his mother pointed. Then, following her slurred instructions, he tied off the cord with a shoece.

  "Clean it up," she mumbled, her eyes already drifting closed, the birth evidently less important than the pull of whatever substance was still in her system. "Wrap it in something."

  The boy gently lifted the tiny, squirming infant. It wasn't crying—was that normal? He didn't know. Carefully, he cleaned the blood and fluid from its small body with the towel, noting with some distant curiosity that it was another boy. A brother.

  The baby finally let out a weak cry as the boy wrapped him in his own shirt, having nothing cleaner to offer. The sound stirred something in him—a tightness in his chest, a burning behind his eyes.

  His mother was already unconscious, her breathing shallow, the birth evidently less important than the pull of whatever substance was still in her system.

  The boy looked down at the tiny face, eyes screwed shut, mouth a perfect 'O' of displeasure. So small. So helpless. Like him, but even more so.

  Unlike himself, this baby would have a name. He would make sure of it.

  "Eli," he whispered, the name coming from nowhere, meaning nothing except that it was a gift—the first thing that was truly his to give. "Your name is Eli."

  In the days that followed, the boy learned many things. He learned how to feed a baby using a pstic bottle he'd washed thoroughly and filled with formu purchased with money stolen from his mother's purse. He learned how to fashion diapers from rags and wash them in the bathroom sink. He learned how to rock a crying infant to sleep, humming tuneless melodies he invented on the spot.

  His mother eventually stirred from her post-birth stupor and regarded her new son with detached curiosity.

  "Eli, huh?" she said when the boy told her the name he'd given his brother. "Whatever. Just keep it quiet."

  "Him," the boy corrected quietly. "Not it. Him."

  His mother squinted at him, then shrugged and reached for her lighter.

  That night, as he y on his bnket-pile with Eli tucked securely against his chest, the boy made a promise. It wasn't eborate or poetic—he didn't have words for that. It was simple, direct, like everything in his short, hard life.

  "I'll protect you," he whispered into the downy hair of his sleeping brother. "Nobody's going to hurt you. Not ever."

  He didn't question why he felt so fiercely about this tiny stranger. He only knew that for the first time in his life, something mattered more than his own survival. This fragile being depended on him completely, and the weight of that responsibility settled on him like a mantle.

  In the weeks and months that followed, the boy's life fell into a new rhythm. His days revolved entirely around Eli's needs—feeding, changing, comforting. His mother was a peripheral presence, sometimes bringing home food or supplies when she remembered, more often demanding money for her habits.

  The boy became adept at stretching resources, at calcuting exactly how much formu each scoop would make, at fashioning toys from discarded items. He learned to recognize which of his mother's "friends" were dangerous and which were merely annoying, steering Eli away from the former and tolerating the tter.

  Sometimes, on rare good days, his mother would emerge from her haze long enough to acknowledge her children. She might ruffle the boy's hair or tickle Eli's chin, provoking a gummy smile that lit up his small face.

  "What do we call you, anyway?" she asked once, squinting at her older son as if seeing him for the first time. "Did I ever name you?"

  The boy shrugged. He'd never had a name that he knew of. No birth certificate, no legal record of his existence. His mother had always been careful to keep them away from authorities—schools, hospitals, social services—pces that might notice a child who officially didn't exist.

  "Doesn't matter," his mother said, losing interest quickly. "You're just the kid. The older one."

  And so he remained nameless, defined only by his responsibility to Eli. He was Eli's protector, Eli's provider, Eli's teacher. It was enough. It had to be.

  As Eli grew from infant to toddler, the boy watched with fierce pride as his brother reached milestones—first smile, first steps, first words. "Buh," Eli would call him, unable to say "brother," his chubby arms raised in absolute trust.

  The nameless child, who had never known security or unconditional love, gave these things to his brother without hesitation. When there wasn't enough food, Eli ate. When it was cold, Eli got the extra bnket. When there was danger—a violent visitor, a police knock at the door—the boy would scoop up his brother and find somewhere safe to hide until it passed.

  "Mine," Eli would say, patting the boy's cheek with sticky fingers. "My buh."

  "Yours," the boy would agree, something warm unfurling in his chest. "Always yours."

  In a life without certainties, this was the one truth he knew: he belonged to Eli, and he would do anything—anything—to keep his brother safe in a world that had no interest in protecting either of them.