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  • Do you remember, Mo? I need to piece it all together and only you can help me, big brother. But everything feels so vague, and I'm not sure what really happened or didn't. There are the things that don't need to be said out loud. The house itself. The hill. The creek and the woods. Those things can go unspoken—they exist, intact, in both of our minds.

    Some memories are only mine. The time I jumped off the second-story deck that dad was building by hand. I looked over the edge and thought about it. I knew I could fly, so I jumped. For like 20 years, I kept that memory to myself—no one would believe me anyway. Dad was the one that brought it up, a few months back. He said he was working on the deck one day and I fell over the edge. He dove after me and grabbed me by my foot, the two of us dangling high above the ground for a few seconds until he could swing me back up. I thought about it for a long time before I said anything. I guess you're right, I told him, except about one thing.

    I didn't fall.

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