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that time Mom signed us all up for some family challenge on hercompany’s retreat. We spent the entire weekend smelly and disgusting on obstacle courses. We were terrible! Keith face-planted when he fell trying to climb up one of those rope ladders. Lexi kept tripping every time she had to run, and then Jason would swoop in and try to save her like he was her power twin or something. Dad had to carry you and me because we were the youngest. You and I loved it,” I tell him.
    â€œWe did?” Sam asks, biting his lip. I can almost see the wheels turning as he tries to unlock the door to this memory.
    â€œYep, and Mom was the worst of all. She just laughed herself silly every time one of us screwed up. When we finally got to the obstacle course wall, which is this picture here, suddenly you got this look in your eye. You were determined for us to finish the course, even though there was no way we could win at that point. You told us to imagine we were all Spider-Man. You were obsessed with him. You even went first over the wall.” I grab Sam’s leg as I remember the feeling of watching him scale that high platform. “You got to the top in no time and captured the flag that was up there. We were all cheering.” I pull my swing over to his and lock my left leg around his right one so we’re attached. “You were the big hero of the day. You even got a reward—”
    Sam interrupts me. “A twelve-scoop banana split.”
    â€œThat’s right!” I’m excited he actually remembers. His facebreaks into a huge smile. “Remember Mom had one too? Extra chocolate, marshmallows and—”
    â€œPineapple!” Sam finishes. I don’t remember the last time I saw him this excited. The breeze blows that mop of brown hair out of his eyes, and the two of us just stare at each other for a moment, remembering the sights and sounds of that day. “Thanks,” he says shyly. “I remember that now.”
    â€œGood.” I look down at the sketchbook in his hands. I wonder if I should keep going with this bonding thing since it seems to be working. “So I hear your teacher selected you for the county art show next week.”
    â€œHow did you hear that?” Sam’s eyebrows go up.
    I don’t tell him the truth. His art teacher, Mr. Colligan, who’s also my art teacher, stopped me the other day and asked if any of us were going to come see his show. I didn’t even know Sam was in it. “Your teacher says you’re some sort of art genius, which I find hard to believe.” He knocks his swing into mine. “But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt till the show, at least.” I nod to his sketchpad. “Want to show me something award-worthy?”
    Sam pulls his pad off his lap and hides it behind his back. “No way.”
    â€œCome on,” I beg. I put the photo box down and start to swing again. As great as that memory of our family trip was, italso makes me depressed. There will never be a family trip like that again. I try not to dwell on it, but it’s hard not to blink back tears. I don’t want my brother to see me cry. Not when I’m here trying to cheer him up. I have to focus on my breathing, like my psychiatrist says I should in situations like this. “ Breathe in and out. In and out. Concentrate on something else ,” I can hear him say.
    â€œShow me where you get your inspiration from,” I suggest to Sam.
    But it’s already too late. I can feel my medication kick in and the swing set does a complete 360 before righting itself and bursting into a rainbow of colors that are as comforting to me as a hot cocoa with extra marshmallows.
    â€œI just draw things,” Sam says, starting to swing again a little. “Stuff that will take me away from this reality, you know?”
    Maybe Sam and I have more in common than I realized. “Trust me, I know.” I nod to the