It was a wretched night to be out of doors. Not that he wanted to be indoors, if being indoors meant having to come inside his own house.

He hunched deeper inside his jacket. Above him, gray clouds raced, obscuring the moon and everything else in the night sky. He stood on top of a hill, gazing out at the broad field ahead of him, the forest at his back. And beyond that forest was his home – if you could call it that.

The wind tugged at his hair and he sat down on the grassy hilltop, a small boy with dark hair far too thick lying unruly on top of his head, wearing eyeglasses and a jacket two sizes too large.

For the hundredth time, he wished he was someone else. Or at least somewhere else.

He made a soft, bitter snort. He was going to be somewhere else, alright. Finally sick of him, his parents were sending him off to Italy the day after the next. He didn't know how long he would be staying there. They didn't tell him and he didn't really care enough to ask. There was nothing here he would miss, and no one here to miss him. It didn't matter if he was to never come back.

There were footsteps behind him and he sighed, wishing that whoever it was would just leave him alone.

"Keith. It's cold and dark out here. Shouldn't you be coming back?"

He resolutely decided not to look at his twin brother. They were supposed to be identical, but Keith knew that he was just a puny imitation of his brother, poorly cast, though from the same mold.

Brian sat down next to him. "It might be nice to go live in Italy for a while. This place is kinda boring."

"It's not like I'm going over there on vacation, you know," Keith replied sullenly. "It's not like Mom and Dad'll be wanting me to come back after a while. I'll probably have to live there all my life."

"They wouldn't do that," Brian murmured.

Keith didn't answer. It was no use trying to explain things to him. He had never had to wear glasses, never got so ill, he could hardly walk. He never got beaten up, bullied, made fun of, or anything like that. He was perfect and everybody loved him.

"Anyway, it might be fun. We always have fun in Italy."

"I never do."

Brian sighed. "It's 'cause you never try."

"It's because no one likes me. 'Sides, I'm not staying at our place over there. I'm living with some family and they'll hate me for sure."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because I'm not you."

Brian didn't say anything for a while. "Why would you want to be me?"

Keith glared at him but didn't say anything.

"I think they'll like you if you let them. You're smart and – and everything."

"I'm not smart. Half the school gets better marks than me. You get better marks than me."

Brian scratched his nose. "I don't get that. You're the one who taught me all that Math stuff the other day. How did you flunk that last test?"

He had flunked because he had slept through it. There was no point in even trying. No matter what he did, people would never like him. If he started doing better than everyone in school, they'd like him even less.

"Anyway, you're good at a lot of other things," Brian went on encouragingly. "You can— you know all that music stuff."

Keith snorted. "I'm being forced to learn strings, and you're already good with the piano."

Brian fished something out of his jacket pocket. "And look at this. I drew it this morning. I wanted to see if I could-- It's not as good as something you'd make." He smiled. "But Mom said she liked it anyway."

Keith looked up at once, his eyes blazing. "What did you say?"

"It's not that good a drawing," Brian said hastily, withdrawing the offered sheet of paper and starting to fold it again.

But Keith snatched it out of his hand and – without even looking at it – tore it in two.

"Hey—"

"You just had to do it! The one thing I was really good at and you had to try it, too!"

"But I just wanted— I thought your stuff was cool and I tried to see if maybe I could do it, too. But I can't. You're better at it and that's great. I mean, Mom was just being nice to me, I think."

Keith's eyes were furious. "They don't know! And now when I show them, they'll think I just started drawing because you draw. And even if I am better, it wouldn't mean anything because you do it, too."

"They don't . . . But you're really good! Why didn't you—"

"I'm not good! I'm not! But I was going to be! And you've ruined everything!"

"But I didn't mean—"

Keith tore away, breathing hard. He felt an asthma attack coming, but he didn't care. He ran as fast as he could. It just wasn't fair.

He felt a hand grab hold of his jacket, throwing him off balance. He fell to the ground backward.

Brian bent over him. "Keith! Where's your inhaler?"

His breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He stared at the sky over his brother's shoulder, the blackness he knew so well just lurking at the edges of his vision.

The clouds swirled and rearranged themselves. He was vaguely aware that Brian was searching his clothes for his inhaler. He realized, with a strange sort of detachment, that his brother was scared and worried.

"Keith, please—Where is it?" Brian sounded like he was going to cry.

The veiled sky shifted, and for a brief moment, just before he lost consciousness, he saw a single star, winking down at him as if in reassurance.

He thought it was strange, but he was reassured all the same.