But even though this state had lasted from when he started middle school all the way through high school, even though he often thought about not wanting to go home, not wanting to see his parents again, and especially not wanting to see those two identical faces again... when the moment finally arrived, as if his wish had come true, he was still completely stunned.

Stunned.

Utterly stunned.

Ever since his mom said, "There's something I need to tell you," through months of cold war and paperwork, up until now, everything felt like a dream he couldn't snap out of.

Most of the time, he didn't feel much sadness or pain.

All he felt was stunned.

"Cold, isn't it?" David Thompson turned around and asked, coughing a few times. "It's a lot colder here than where you used to live, right?"

"Yeah." Brian Carter replied from behind his mask.

"It'll be warm once we're inside," David Thompson said, coughing and speaking loudly, spraying spit all over his face. "I cleaned out a room just for you."

"Thanks." Brian Carter answered, reaching up to adjust his mask.

"No need for thanks between us," David Thompson said, coughing and laughing as he patted him twice on the back. "No need for thanks between father and son!"

Brian Carter couldn't respond. Those two pats were pretty strong—he'd already inhaled some cold air and wanted to cough, and hearing David Thompson cough made him want to cough even more. After those two slaps, he bent over and started coughing like crazy toward the ground, almost coughing up tears.

"You're not in great shape," David Thompson looked at him. "You need to exercise. When I was your age, I was as strong as a bear."

Brian Carter didn't say anything, just bent over, stuck out his arm, and gave him a thumbs-up.

David Thompson laughed cheerfully. "Exercise! I'll be counting on you to take care of me in the future!"

Brian Carter straightened up and glanced at him.

"Let's go." David Thompson gave him another slap on the back.

"Don't touch me." Brian Carter frowned.

"Oh?" David Thompson was taken aback, staring at him with wide eyes. "What's wrong?"

Brian Carter met his gaze for a moment, then pulled down his mask. "Don't pat my back."

David Thompson's home was on an old, narrow street, lined on both sides with shabby but lively little shops selling food, clothes, and daily necessities. Above the shops were low, small apartment buildings.

Brian Carter looked up through the tangle of overhead wires. The outer walls had lost all their original color—he couldn't tell if it was because it was getting dark or if they'd always looked like that.

With a heart full of indescribable feelings, he followed David Thompson as they turned into a stairwell, passed a few piles of clutter and vegetables, and stopped in front of the door at the very end of the first floor.

"The conditions definitely aren't as good as what you had before," David Thompson said as he unlocked the door, "but what's mine is yours!"

Brian Carter said nothing, staring at a lightbulb in the stairwell wrapped in cobwebs, feeling like the bulb was about to suffocate.

"What's mine is yours!" David Thompson opened the door and turned back to give him two heavy pats on the shoulder. "And what's yours is mine! That's what being real family is all about!"

"I told you not to touch me," Brian Carter said, a bit irritated.

"Oh," David Thompson went inside and turned on the light. "Really spoiled, talking to your elders like that. Let me tell you, I never spoiled your brother or your sister. If you'd grown up at home, I'd have straightened you out long ago... Come on, you'll sleep in this room... This used to be your brother's..."

Brian Carter didn't bother listening to whatever else David Thompson was saying. He dragged his suitcase into the inner room. The apartment had two bedrooms—he couldn't imagine how the whole family used to live here.

This room that had been cleaned out... probably hadn't really been cleaned at all. He could tell just by the smell, without even looking—the scent of dust mixed with a faint mustiness.

An old wardrobe, a desk, a bunk bed. The top bunk was piled with junk, but the bottom bunk had been cleared off, with freshly changed sheets and blankets.

"Leave your stuff for now, tidy up tomorrow," David Thompson said. "Let's have a couple of drinks first."

"Drinks?" Brian Carter was taken aback, glancing at his phone—it was almost ten o'clock.

"Yeah, alcohol," David Thompson looked at him. "We haven't seen each other in over ten years, we have to have a drink to celebrate!"

"...No," Brian Carter said, a bit speechless. "I don't want to drink."

"Don't want to drink?" David Thompson's eyes widened, staring at him for two seconds before narrowing again as he started to laugh. "Don't tell me you've never had a drink? You're in high school already..."

"I don't want to drink," Brian Carter cut him off. "I want to sleep."

"Sleep?" David Thompson stood there awkwardly for a while, then waved his hand and turned to leave, his voice rough. "Fine, fine, go to sleep, go to sleep."

Brian Carter closed the door to the room and stood inside for almost five minutes before finally going over to open the wardrobe.

As soon as he opened the door, he was hit by a wave of mothball smell and froze. It was a two-door wardrobe, half of it stuffed full—with blankets, quilts, old cotton coats, and a towel blanket so frayed at the edges it was almost like fringe.

It was hard to describe the feeling. Brian Carter was sure he hadn't started missing his home and family, who were now several hours away, but he was already desperately missing his own room.