Elliot had a plan.
He had a red cape for his brother. He had a wooden sword for his brother. He had a tower of blocks in the corner of his room, built so high it almost touched the ceiling.
"When my brother comes," Elliot told his dad, "we're gonna fight dragons."
His dad smiled a funny kind of smile. "The baby might not fight dragons right away."
"That's okay," said Elliot. "I'll teach him."
She came home on a Tuesday.
She was not a brother.
She was small and pink and her face was all scrunched up like a fist. She made a sound like a cat that was also a fire truck. Mom carried her through the front door wrapped in a yellow blanket, and everyone whispered like the house had turned into a library.
"Elliot," Mom said softly, "this is your sister. Her name is Lily."
Elliot looked at Lily.
Lily did not look like someone who would fight dragons.
He went to his room and shut the door. The block tower stood in the corner, tall and perfect. He sat on his bed and held the red cape in his lap.
It was too big for her anyway.
That night, Lily cried. She cried and cried and cried. She cried so loud the windows buzzed. Elliot put his pillow over his head.
The next morning, Lily cried some more. Dad walked around the kitchen bouncing her and bouncing her, his eyes half shut, his toast getting cold.
"Does she ever stop?" Elliot asked.
"She's figuring things out," Dad said. "Everything is new to her."
Elliot ate his cereal. Lily cried into Dad's shoulder.
"Everything is new?" Elliot said.
Dad nodded.
Elliot looked at Lily's scrunched-up face. Her fists were so tiny. Her eyes were squeezed shut like she was scared to open them.
He thought about that.
After breakfast, Elliot went to his room. He stood in front of the block tower. He looked at it for a long time.
Then he knocked it down.
CRASH!
Blocks flew everywhere — red ones, blue ones, yellow ones rolling under the bed and bouncing off the walls. It was loud. It was wonderful.
He picked up the best blocks. The smooth ones. The bright ones. He carried them downstairs in his shirt like a pouch, dropping a few on each step — clunk, clunk, clunk.
Mom was on the couch with Lily. Lily was still crying, but quieter now, like she was getting tired of it.
Elliot sat on the floor right in front of them.
He stacked one red block on the rug. Then a blue one on top. Then a yellow one.
Click. Click. Click.
Lily stopped crying.
Her eyes opened. They were dark and round and way too big for her head. She looked at the blocks. She looked at Elliot.
He put another one on top. The tower wobbled.
Lily made a sound. Not crying. Something else. A small, wet, bubbly sound.
"She's looking at it," Elliot whispered.
"She's looking at you," Mom said.
Elliot felt something warm spread through his chest, like sunlight, like a big hand holding him steady.
He leaned closer. "I'm Elliot," he said. "I'm your brother."
Lily blew a tiny bubble.
He put one more block on top. The tower tipped — and it fell, soft and slow, right onto the blanket beside her.
Lily's mouth opened wide.
Elliot laughed. And he built it again.
That night, the red cape was draped over the crib rail. The wooden sword was under Elliot's bed, forgotten. And in the corner of his room, there was no tower anymore.
Just a pile of bright blocks, waiting for tomorrow.
