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When we first got him—Mom would lecture me, because that makes him sound like a dog—and he had those moments of rage, and he kicked and screamed and cried until he would just wear himself down completely and then sleep for days, I would hide. I didn’t get it. Didn’t get him. Why he had to be here. He scared me. Everything about him scared me, even when he was crashed out hard on the other twin bed Mom and Dad had squeezed into my room. I didn’t get close; getting close to him creeped me out, but I would sit, mesmerized on my bed—scrunched as far back into the corner as I could get—and stare at him. He never moved. When he slept, he never moved an inch. Like, when he first came here and he’d go through that whole melt down thing and then sleep, I would panic because I thought he was dead.