Lab Rats

Noah

He was five when I was born.

He looked more like our dad than our mom: same shaggy auburn hair, same warm September eyes, same lopsided grin and awkward lankiness. He did, however, have our mom's button nose; it was the only trait of hers that was passed down to the both of us.

He was kind, but direct. Funny only in a sarcastic way. Secretive. Protective.

He was my brother.

He was the one who told me about animals.

He died the day before I turned fifteen.

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(7 April 2673)

"This is a dog," he told me, pointing to a picture of a black-and-white four-legged creature with a neon ball in its mouth. "There's a specific name for this type of dog." He tapped the mottled page and looked at me. I'd never seen his eyes so bright, his smile so wide and real. I turned my attention back to the book in my lap; it was full of animals. That's what Noah had called them. Animals.

"Oh!" Noah exclaimed, making me jump. "It's a Dalmation! That's what this one is called." He turned the page. The paper crinkled and part of it broke off in his fingertips. He didn't seem to notice. "This one is a Saint Bernard." He turned the page again and I gasped. My tiny eight-year-old fingers reached out to touch the picture.

Noah laughed. "These are called puppies. They're just baby dogs. Huskies, actually."

I'd never seen anything so precious.

(5 July 2673)

"Diem, wake up." I felt Noah's hand on my shoulder. I was lost in a dream about fish, the last animal he'd told me about. His touch was like a hook and I was a trout; he reeled me in from the fantasy. I broke the surface—opened my eyes—and saw his own just inches in front of my nose.

He waved a stack of photos in my face.

I immediately sat up and kicked my blankets off. I threw my pillows onto the floor to make room for him on my bed.

"Shhhh," he smiled and sat down next to me. "If Mom or Dad wakes up, we're dead."

I'd thought he was joking.

"Which reminds me..." he got up and tiptoed to the other side of my room, where the door was. He locked it quietly, smiled at me, and then returned to his spot next to me. We weren't ever allowed to lock the doors. Mom hated it. But I trusted Noah, so I didn't argue with him. I wouldn't mind getting in trouble as long as I got to see the photos; those photos were worth it. They were worth almost everything. Almost.

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. Two in the morning. Our mom got up for work at six. We had four hours. Nowhere near enough time.

I rested my head on Noah's shoulder, not wanting to waste a single second of our secret time with the animals.

He shuffled through the photos, searching for a particular one. He grinned when he found it and held it out towards me.

He'd never let me hold one of the photos before.

"Here," he set it down in my lap, "take it."

"Really?" I looked at the picture, then up at him, and then back to the photo.

He didn't object, so I gingerly picked up the captured moment, making sure to hold it only by the sides—the way I'd seen Noah do it so many times.

"What is it?" I asked as I brought it up to my eyes. It wasn't cute like the puppies or shiny like the fish, but it was unlike anything I'd ever imagined. It didn't have four legs or a normal nose. It had weirdly-shaped arms that stretched out to its sides. Something that resembled the shape of a hook protruded from its face. And it was...floating. It wasn't touching the ground; the photo didn't even show the ground, just the sky.