Tommy, sixteen, rolls out of bed, glancing at the damp spot with disbelief. He hasn't wet the bed since he was eight, and the shock leaves his cheeks burning. Across the room, his younger brother, Steve, thirteen, sits hunched on his mattress, shoulders tense. "Steve, did you mess with my stuff last night?" he snaps, annoyance masking his confusion.

Steve pokes at his cereal, avoiding his brother's glare. He's tried everything to stop his own bedwetting—bathroom trips before bed, no water after dinner, even hypnosis videos online—but nothing has worked. "Tommy, I'm not the only one with problems now," he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. Their mom, bustling in the background, eyes both boys with concern.

Tommy corners Steve by the stairs, his anger boiling over. He yanks at his brother's waistband, exposing Steve's tighty-whites for all to see, and shouts for everyone to hear. "Look, Steve still wears these and wets the bed!" The laughter stings, but Steve's eyes flash with something new—determination.

He focuses intently, voice low and rhythmic, hoping to turn the tables. The air feels charged as he repeats the suggestion, eyes squeezed shut, wishing for his brother to understand how it feels.

Mom sets them on Tommy's dresser, her tone firm. "Tommy, if this happens again, you'll be back in diapers like your brother. No more boxers—tighties only," she warns. Tommy nods, cheeks flaming, as Steve watches with a quiet satisfaction.

Tommy glances at Steve, guilt threading through his words. "Hey, want to go out to lunch? Just us?" Steve nods, a smile tugging at his lips. As they head out the door, Tommy finally understands how it feels to walk in his brother's shoes—or underwear.