The narrator sits cross-legged, clutching a battered red racecar, glaring across at his brother, who sports a mischievous smirk and holds a robot toy. "Stop touching my things! Why do you always have to mess with my stuff?" "Because your toys are cooler than mine. And anyway, Mom says we should share."

The narrator feels his cheeks burn with frustration, yanking his toy away while his brother laughs, feigning innocence. "You started it by hiding my video game yesterday!" "Only because you stole my favorite comic book. You always think you're cooler but you're just annoying."

Mom sets down her spoon and wipes her hands on a towel, her voice gentle but firm. "Boys, you better be nice to each other because one day y’all will be best friends. Trust me, it happens." "Mom, that sounds crazy. He’ll never be my best friend, ever."

"When your Aunt Kayla and I were little, we fought all the time—pulled hair, stole shoes, you name it. I thought she was the worst. But now we talk every single day, sometimes ten times. Sisters, brothers, it all changes." "Yeah, but we’re not twins! Everyone thinks we are but we’re not."

The narrator glances at his brother, reluctant to admit a glimmer of understanding. "Maybe when we’re old, like Mom and Aunt Kayla…but I don’t think I’ll ever call you ten times a day. You’re mean." "You say that now, but just wait. Maybe you’ll change your mind when I’m super famous."

The narrator can’t help but laugh as his brother tries to balance the robot on the racecar, the argument forgotten for now. "We’re not twins, but maybe we’re stuck together anyway." "Guess you’ll just have to deal with it, best friend."