Miguel didn’t know what was going on with him, but he felt like it had something to do with the book.

He just kept his hand in his hoodie pocket and tried to act normal.

But normal was slipping.

In the hallway, Mo jogged up beside him, chewing gum like it owed him money.

"Yo, Miggy. You good? You’re walking like you just saw a ghost."

Miguel shrugged. "I’m fine."

Mo squinted. "Nah. You’re twitchy. Like, emotionally constipated twitchy."

Miguel blinked. "What does that even mean?"

Mo grinned. "Means we’re going to the cafeteria before you implode."

Miguel didn’t argue.

But as they walked, he felt it again.

A wave.

Not his.

Mo’s.

Hunger.
Frustration.
A weird craving for pickles and chocolate milk.

Miguel stopped walking and started crying.

Mo froze. "Bro. What?"

Miguel wiped his face. "You’re hungry."

Mo blinked. "I mean... yeah?"

"I feel it. I feel you. I feel everyone. And I don’t know why."

Mo grabbed his arm. "You’re probably just hangry. Are you on your period? Are you a girl? Bro, it’s okay, you can tell me," he said, laughing. "Okay. We’re getting food. Now."

In the cafeteria, the lunch lady dropped mashed potatoes onto Miguel’s tray.

Miguel stared at them.

Then snapped.

"What is this trash?" he shouted. "It looks like drywall paste! Do you even cook? Why would you put that in my plate?!"

The lunch lady blinked. "It’s mashed potatoes."

Mo stepped in. "Miggy, chill. I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s just"

Miguel turned on him. "Why are you defending her? She assaulted my tray!"

Mo tried not to laugh. "Bruh. It’s potatoes."

Miguel’s eyes flared. "You think this is funny?"

He shoved Mo hard.

Mo slammed into the wall with a thud, knocking over a tray of spaghetti.

Miguel gasped.

His hands were glowing.

Just faintly.

Just for a second.

Then gone.

Naomi, standing nearby, dropped her juice. "Miguel... what the hell is wrong with you?"

Miguel backed up, breathing fast. "I don’t know what’s happening to me."

He turned and walked out fast. Hoodie up. Head down.

Later that day, he found Mo behind the gym, leaning against the wall, spaghetti stains on his hoodie.

Miguel ran up, breath shaky. "I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I got angry and"

Mo held up a hand. "Bro. I’m not mad."

Miguel blinked. "You’re not?"

Mo shrugged. "You shoved me like I was made of paper, yeah. But you looked scared. Not mean. I’m more worried than mad. Talk to me. What’s going on with you?"

Miguel nodded, eyes wet. "Nothing. I guess I just need a bit of sleep."

Mo grinned. "Also, you owe me new pants, asswhole."

Miguel grinned.

Naomi walked up, arms crossed. "What the hell happened there?"

Mo said, "This is between us men. Dude just doesn’t like her mashed potatoes. I mean, he’s got a point. That lady does not know how to make food."

She raised an eyebrow. "You two are on something?"

Miguel mumbled to himself while looking at his hands. "I need to find out what is going on. And what did I feel when I pushed Mo? Where did I get that strength?"

That night, Miguel sat in the garage again.

The notebook was open.

The diamond sketch was faded. He couldn’t see it in any of the pages anymore.

His fingers twitched.

No glow.

Just warmth.

"I guess I really need to sleep."

Upstairs, his phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

He picked it up.

A voice came through calm, smooth, strange.

"Hello. Is this Miguel Vale?"

Miguel froze. "This is he. Who is this?"

The voice chuckled. "I’m your brother."

Miguel’s breath caught. "What?"

The voice paused. "We’ll talk soon."

Click.

Call ended.

Miguel stared at the screen.

Brother?

He didn’t have a brother.

Not one he knew.

Not one who sounded like that.

He looked out the window.

Did Dad cheat on Mom?

And did I have a brother?