That was how it began: Ricky, the only child who learned early how to be alone, and Baby Gemini, who was already two people in a thrift-store coat.

Baby Gemini stopped walking. The river ran dark and patient. “Ricky,” they said, and their voice was two voices now, “if you can’t love the twins, you don’t get to love the person.”

Baby Gemini laughed, and the laugh split and harmonized with itself. They walked back to the car, and Ricky drove them home through the empty streets, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Baby Gemini’s hand—two palms, one story, no version control.