Grown

My little brother jumped up in jubilant anticipation, despite my warning him: “Trust me, you don’t want to grow up.” But he wasn’t listening—just as I hadn’t listened when my parents tried to prepare me. I led him into the plastic-lined, sound-insulated Growing Room. He protested as I shut him inside; soon the shrieks started. He grew and grew, and I was glad I wasn’t in there to see the blood, the muscle tissue rending—although even here, I could hear the bones cracking, the awful screaming. But I smiled, knowing that when he emerged, he’d have grown, just like me.