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Clint is your little brother, and his arms are even scrawnier than yours. You try to make him eat food—"Come on, squirt"—but his eyes drift to your father's whiskey bottles, and you see the sick fear in his eyes.
You're not strong enough to protect him. You try anyway. Your father calls you mouthy and beats you when he's drunk, but it's hard to care as long as Clint is curled up silent somewhere high and safe.
He invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him. Both of you know, but won't admit, the only monster in the house is human.
When your father's car wraps around a tree and both of your parents are found dead, when the two of you are orphaned too young and have nowhere to go, when everyone except your little brother is gone, you feel only sick relief, and it makes you wonder for just a moment if the only monster is you.