Dear Wigleaf,

I wrote about twins. Let me set the record straight.

I am not a twin, although as a child, I often imagined one. I suppose this is a common fantasy, benign enough. But my twin was not a good twin. He cursed. He stole. He lured cats into our yard with tunafish then shot them with his pellet gun. When our neighbor's garage burned down, my twin returned home with the scent of gasoline on his hands. I told him to leave. I didn't want to be blamed for his actions. He pleaded for another chance, but being twins, I understood his heart. No, I said.

Time passed. When I read the local paper's reports of unsolved burglaries and assaults, I thought of my twin. He was capable of such crimes and, I feared, worse. Now he has grown up, hidden in my shadow. Every day, the newspaper reports new horrors. I look for my twin in airports and train stations. At night, I sometimes wake from disturbing dreams, my head woozy with the scent of gasoline.

I will keep my eyes open until reunion or death—whatever comes first.





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Read CS's story, "The Twins."

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