Rob’s lawyer debates if they should push his court date until the Monday after the election.

“Then if Abbott loses, it might be easier to get a plea deal,” Rob says. “But if he wins, it might be harder.

“Is it worth taking the risk?” I ask.

“That’s what we’re paying Ms. Tilley the big bucks for,” Dad says. “To give us advice and to deal with those contingencies.”

“We decided to push it,” Rob says.

I want Mayor Abbott to lose for many good policy reasons, but now it’s even more personal.

“I’m volunteering for Jack Witham’s campaign,” I tell them. “We start tomorrow after school.”

“You never told us that,” Mom says.

“That’s because I only decided to do it yesterday.”

“That’s my girl,” Dad says. “Gets knocked down but gets right back up again.”

“Unlike your son,” Rob mutters.

He might as well have shouted through a megaphone for the effect it has on my parents, especially Dad, who looks like my brother just sucker punched him.

“Why would you say such a thing?” Dad asks in a quiet, even voice.

“Seriously? Like you haven’t made it clear I’m pathetic for not being able to get my act together?”

“Rob, that’s not fair,” Mom says. “Your father—”

“No, Val, let him talk,” Dad says. “Better we get this out in the open.”

I sit, shocked and silent, wanting to be anywhere but this dinner table at this particular moment. But then I remember Rob saying: “I hope your classmates are smart enough to see that they’d be lucky to have someone like you at their six. I know I am,” and I feel ashamed. Because now that he and Dad are about to go head-to-head, I want to turn tail and run like the coward I am. I’m the worst six-haver ever.

“You met Mom with your guts hanging out. But you came back and got on with your life, so why can’t I?” Rob says. “It’s not like I’ve got any scars to show for my tours, right?”

“It’s not about physical scars—”

“Val, I said let Rob speak,” Dad cuts Mom off.

Mom flashes Dad an angry look, but she stays quiet—at least for now. I put down my knife and fork, because I can’t eat another bite while this drama plays out in front of me.

“You were saying?” my father says to Rob.

But Rob’s clammed up now. He pushes his food around his plate with his fork. The silence is suffocating. I might choke from it.

“Come on, Rob, what’s on your mind?” Dad says. “Let’s clear the air.”

My brother just keeps pushing food around and avoiding my dad’s gaze. I want to kick him under the table and tell him to spit it out. Anything to break the tension.

Instead, I sit there, listening to his fork scraping and my dad’s breaths getting louder and slower as he waits and my mom’s getting quicker as she becomes more anxious and Peggy gets up and starts pacing around the table because she can sense our heightened emotions and it’s freaking her out, too.

“Spit it out, Rob. If you’ve got something to say, look me in the eye and say it.”

Still no words. This is SO AWKWARD.

“You want to know what’s on my mind? FINE!” Rob explodes, flinging his fork down on his plate so hard that food spatters onto the table. He pushes his chair back and stands up. “You never let me forget that you made it through your war without losing it. That you’re a real man. Heck, Mom’s more of a man than I am, right, Dad? And Stella—she gets knocked down, but she’s just like you! She gets right back up again. NO BIG DEAL!”

My fists clench under the table. How can Rob say it’s no big deal for me to get up and keep moving forward when bad things happen? He has no idea.

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m such a disappointment to you, Dad. Maybe I should have just bought it instead of coming home.”

There are words you should never say to the family who was worried about you dying every day during each of your twelve-month deployments.

My brother just said them, and I’m done.

“How can you say that to us?” I yell at him. “Can you even IMAGINE what it was like while you were away?”

I’ve been so quiet that my outburst takes everyone by surprise, especially Rob, whose mouth falls open in shock.

“Stella—” Dad says.

“No! I’m not going to shut up and let Rob speak, Dad. Not after that.” I stare down Rob. “If you think my life is so easy, think again. We’ve all got stuff to deal with. You’ve had to deal with a lot more, I get it. But we’re all part of it. So stop acting like it’s only happening to you.”

I don’t wait around for his response. I’m so angry that we’re doing everything we can think of to try to help him and then him throwing something like that in our face that I can’t even stand to be in the same room as him right now, so I storm upstairs to my room and slam the door.

OMG, my brother makes me so MAD!!!!!!! I text Farida.

As they do. she texts back.

She has a point.

But this anger is bigger than the usual brother/sister stuff. This anger has my heart beating faster and my hands shaking, and I feel so much that my body doesn’t feel big enough to contain it. My room doesn’t feel big enough. I’m a ticking time bomb that will explode this house if I go off.

Then it hits me.

Is this Rob at the mall?

Is this Rob punching Wade?

Is that why he couldn’t stop?

Is this how Farida feels every day?

When people tell her to go back to where she came from?

When even her best friend doesn’t get it?

This anger at injustice that feels too big for the world?

ME: How do you cope?

FARIDA: Yusef’s annoying at times, but he’s not THAT BAD.

ME: Ha! Sorry, unidentified change of subject. I mean with unfairness. With anger. With so much crazy stuff going on in the world that makes no sense. With a best friend who never seems to get what the reality of your life is like.

FARIDA: Oh, THAT kind of mad.

ME: Yeah.

ME: Seriously … how do you keep going when you have to deal with so much? I know I sound super white-girl right now, but I feel like I’m going to explode.

FARIDA: Ha, you do sound super white-girl. You keep going because I mean, what else can I do? Give up? Not an option. Sit around and feel sorry for myself? Yeah, sometimes I do that, but where does that get me? Even more depressed about it all. So I just keep on going.

ME: I guess I’ve always felt like I had a choice. That’s what my white girl status gave me. But now I don’t feel like there’s a choice anymore.

FARIDA: Welcome to my world!

ME: So what helps when you get to the feel-like-you’re-about–to-explode stage?

FARIDA: Different things. Sometimes I play music really loud. I recommend Oversized Aviators or Barbie and the Bats. Sometimes I go for a run. Sometimes I eat too much baklava. Believe it or not, when you’re not the one who’s making me want to explode, you help, too!

ME: Good to know! I hope that the ratio of helping vs making you want to explode improves. I know I keep saying I get it and then I don’t, but I *think* I get it more now. Not that I probably won’t screw up again but …

FARIDA: And not that I won’t tell you when you screw up again. But I’d rather not spend all my time with you doing that. There are so many more fun things to do. Like watch movies and argue about which band is better or check out new shoes. Or running lines for the musical auditions! Even if you sometimes sound like a croaky frog.

ME: LOL. All of the above is true. Especially the croaky frog part.

There’s a knock on my door.

“Stella—it’s me. Can I come in?”

I thumb a quick text to Farida. Thanks sorry GTG. Brother at the door.

Good luck xo, she replies.

I tell Rob he can come in, and he does, followed by a tail-between-the-legs, head-down Peggy. Nobody is happy in this house—man, woman, or canine.

My brother sits on the end of my bed, and Peggy jumps up and lies between us, like a furry demilitarized zone.

I stroke her head while I wait for Rob to say something. He takes his time, opening his mouth and closing it, twice, before finally saying, “Stella, I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t say what, exactly, he’s sorry for, but it doesn’t matter right now. Just hearing him say the words is enough that the room slowly shrinks to the right size again, and the fuse inside me flickers and slowly fades. He’s my brother, and even though he makes my life difficult at times, I still love him.

“We were so scared all the time that something would happen to you,” I say. “And now … I’m scared you’ll …”

I don’t even want to say the words in case. I guess I inherited Mom’s superstition.

He nods, like he knows what I mean.

“Are you? Going to? I mean, do you ever think about it?”

He hesitates a moment too long, so even if he says no, I know it will be a lie.

“Yeah, I have. In my worst moments,” he admits. “But I’m not going to.”

“But if you’ve thought about it, how can we be sure? You have to get help!”

“You think I’m not trying?” Rob says. “I did my part. I went to fight when and where I was told. I did the things my country asked me to do. And now that I’m back here and I need help, my country is taking its sweet time on that.”

He sounds bitter and I can’t blame him for it.

“It’s not fair,” I say.

“Nothing’s fair,” Rob says. “If things were fair, then Guillermo Reyes would be home getting drooled on by his baby girl and loving every minute of it. The only thing that baby girl is going to know about her dad is from pictures and the stories people tell. How is that fair?”

I feel so helpless, for my brother and for Jason and for Reyes and his daughter. For the graffiti on our house calling Rob a traitor, and the fact that he has to wait so long to get help from the government he served. I feel helpless because that help came too late for Jason, and now he’s gone. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to help Rob.

“Hey, come on now,” Rob says, and he reaches across the Demilitarized Dog and puts his arm around me. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“How do you know?” I ask. “It wasn’t for Jason.”

“I won’t do that, okay?”

“You better not. If you do, I’ll kill you.”

Rob’s shoulder heaves with laughter under my head.

“Logic isn’t your strong point,” he says.

I realize my error and laugh with him. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do. And I mean it, Stel. I’m really trying.”

“Dad’s proud of you. I don’t know why you think he isn’t,” I tell him.

“Yeah, he and Mom just had that conversation with me.”

“Seems like I’m not the only one having logic fails here.”

“Who said I was thinking logically? Isn’t that why I’m waiting for a shrink appointment at the VA?”

I hope this won’t end up being like Catch-22—that Rob can’t get help because he admitted he needs it. “When do they think you’ll get one?”

He laughs bitterly. “Hopefully before I’m on Social Security.”

Rob gets up off the bed and Peggy jumps down, ever his shadow.

“Mom wants to know if you’re hungry. You stormed out before you finished dinner.”

“Tell her I’m good,” I say. “I need time to think.”

He salutes and shuts the door behind him.

I turn on music and think about all the people like Rob and Jason who did what they were asked and then came home and haven’t been looked after. It’s easy to put a yellow ribbon magnet on your car or wear a flag pin or wave the Stars and Stripes at a parade or a football game. But what about the hard stuff like paying for care? Everyone’s super patriotic when it’s time to go to war, but what about when our veterans need something in return?

I still don’t understand what patriotism means, what it really means to love our country and how to show it. But it has to be about more than just a symbol. Right?