If anyone had asked me what worried me most, it wasn't whether Alex might lie to me.

It was whether he'd lie to Luis.

Luis has never been stodgier than people imagine, and more gentle too. A paradox held together by hope and the stubbornness that makes him breathe on awful days.

I had braced myself for awkwardness: Luis monosyllabic, Alex polite, words rubbing against silence like gravel.

But instead, from the first actual day, something unexpected happened.

They clicked.

---

It started that afternoon, the sun above and stubborn, the heat thick enough to stick shirts to skin.

Luis drew his creaky chair closer to Alex, who sat with the damaged laptop open on his lap.

"What's wrong with it?" Luis asked, elbows on knees, curiosity afire.

Alex smiled faintly, as if remembering an old friend. "Several things. A loose connection here," he pointed out, "and a drained battery that probably gave up the ghost years ago."

Luis bent forward. "Can you really repair it?"

"I can try," Alex said. "No promises."

---

I stood in the doorway, laundry basket in hand, heart torn between fear and pride.

Luis didn't usually let strangers that close — not neighbors, not friendly church visitors, no one.

But now, sitting beside Alex, he looked like he was feeling something close to trust.

It frightened me.

---

In a matter of minutes, Luis, always direct, asked the question I'd swallowed up the night before.

"Did you do this kind of thing… before?"

Alex hesitated, the little screwdriver hovering in his hand.

"I did," he admitted. "A long time ago."

Luis nodded, satisfied. "You must have been good at it."

Alex's face formed a real smile — brief, a little sad. "I liked it," he said.

---

Luis never let it go at that. "So what happened?"

"I had to leave it behind," Alex said.

"Why?" Luis pushed.

Alex met his gaze straight on, the room gone silent.

"Because sometimes," he said slowly, "life makes you leave things you love behind. In order to move on."

Luis nodded, like he knew more than a twelve-year-old should.

---

Later, after the laptop hummed to life, Luis clapped his hands, laughter tumbling out.

"You did it!" he yelled, eyes shining.

Alex's smile then is something that I will never forget — open, startled, as if he'd forgotten what it was to be useful, to be thanked without suspicion.

---

That night, we ate dinner — a simple one: boiled yam, pepper sauce, and a small smoked fish cut three ways.

Luis gave Alex the larger piece without hesitation.

"You're the guest," he insisted.

Alex tried to refuse, but Luis persisted, stubborn in that quiet way of his.

Alex relented. "Thank you," he rasped, voice cracking.

---

Later, after dinner, Luis rooted under his mattress, pulling out an old comic — pages wrinkled, colors dull.

"Will you read with me?" he asked Alex.

Alex hesitated, glancing at me. I nodded slightly.

Luis plopped the comic in Alex's lap, then leaned in close, shoulder to wheelchair wheel.

They read together. Alex's voice was soft, slightly hesitant at first, then warming up. Luis listened, correcting him when he got a name wrong, laughing when Alex attempted the villain's voice.

The room felt full in a way it hadn't in years.

---

I should have felt jealous, maybe, or left out.

Instead, I felt… relieved. Like the air had finally circulated after years of stagnation.

But under that relief was fear.

Because nothing this good comes for free.

---

When it was late, Luis yawned, his eyes blinking slower and slower.

"You can have it," he muttered, nodding at the comic.

Alex shook his head. "It's yours."

"Then lend it," Luis bargained, already half asleep. "Just for tomorrow."

Alex smiled. "Okay. Just for tomorrow."

---

When Luis fell asleep, Alex closed the comic book quietly, putting it on the table.

"He's a good kid," he said, his voice soft.

"He is," I whispered. "Too good sometimes."

"He sees people as they are," Alex added. "Not as they pretend to be."

---

The words hung heavy between us.

"And what do you think he sees in you?" I asked, not able to help myself.

Alex looked at his hands, scarred at the knuckles, pale against the black cushion of the chair.

"I hope… someone worth trusting," he whispered. "Even if I'm not sure I deserve it."

---

I had intended to say: And me? What do you want me to see?

But the words caught on old hurt and older habits.

Instead, I rose, collecting plates, Something to do.

---

As I did dishes, Alex wheeled himself closer to the window, gazing out into the darkness.

"He's lucky," he said suddenly.

"To have you," he continued when I glanced up.

"I'm just doing my best," I said quietly.

"Sometimes, " Alex said, voice low, "that's braver than it sounds."

---

That night, after lights out, I lay awake again.

I heard Luis breathe, the ceiling fan ticking overhead, and Alex shifted on the mat.

And in the dark, I let hope come closer than I had in years — not for love, not yet.

Just for kindness. For a man who could make my brother smile.

---

But hope, I knew, could be a knife.

And tomorrow had a way of whetting it.

---

End of Chapter 5