What's the coldest thing your sibling ever did to you? I worked double shifts for six months to buy my first car. A beat-up Honda with a dent in the door. But it was mine. The night I got it, I slept in the driver's seat, keys clutched in my hand, dreaming about freedom. Three weeks later, I woke up to my sister standing over my bed, twirling my car keys between her fingers. Borrowed your car last night, she said with a smirk,

tossing the keys onto my chest. Drives pretty good for a beater. My stomach dropped. I bolted outside in my boxers, feet slapping the cold driveway. No car, not in the street, not around the block, nothing. When I ran back inside, she was lounging at the kitchen counter, scrolling on her phone while eating my cereal. Where's my car? Ran out of gas. You can get it later. My mom dropped me at Walmart. Annoyed I was making her late.

My heart pounded as I sprinted through the rows of cars. No Honda. I called my sister five times before she answered. Oh yeah, she yawned into the phone. Ryan drove it home after the party. He might have scratched it a little. Ryan, her boyfriend who'd wrapped his Mustang around a tree last year. My buddy drove me to Ryan's house, where his mother pointed silently toward the back road. Her lips pressed thin.

My car wasn't scratched. It was crumpled in a ditch. Windshield spider webbed. Front end smashed against a tree. Blood rushed to my ears as I stared at six months of work destroyed. They'd sideswiped three parked cars before ditching mine. $4,300 in damage to a $3,000 car. That night, my parents made my sister mumble a ten second apology while texting behind her back. She made a mistake, my dad said, squeezing her shoulder.

Family forgives. Through the wall that night, I heard them laughing at some show while I calculated bus routes to my 5 AM shift. Every morning after, I'd stand at the bus stop in the dark, watching my sister's bedroom light stay off while she slept in. Every time she asked for a ride to the mall, my parents handed her money for an Uber without blinking. Two months later, I walked in on her screaming with joy,

dancing around the kitchen. Got into Pioneer State with a scholarship. She shoved her phone in my face, showing off pictures of luxury dorms. Look, private bathrooms and a rooftop pool. That night, while everyone celebrated with cake, I noticed her laptop glowing on the counter. She'd left it open while showering, still logged into her college portal. The housing selection page showed her assigned to Lakeside Hall, room 302.

The house was silent, except for the shower running upstairs. My finger hovered over Cancel Room Request, one click to trade six months of my life for six months of hers. I clicked it, watching as her dream housing disappeared in an instant, just like my car. Three months later, we packed the SUV with her stuff. Her whole senior summer, she'd bragged about her epic dorm to everyone who would listen. I just nodded, a cold knot of anticipation tightening in my chest.

We drove four hours to campus, unloaded everything onto the sidewalk outside her building. The mini fridge I'd helped carry down three flights of stairs, the LED lights, the expensive comforter set my parents bought her. At check-in, the housing lady's face changed as she typed. There's a problem, she said, turning her screen around. Your housing was canceled in May. No room assignment, my sister's face drained of color.

That's impossible, I confirmed everything. All freshman housing is full, the woman said flatly. You'll have to stay in temporary housing, the gym. Might be there for weeks. My sister started crying, mascara tracking down her cheeks, the special makeup she'd put on for move-in photos. My parents frantically made calls, demanding answers. I picked up her memory foam pillow from the pile of her stuff on the sidewalk.

That's weird, I said, handing it to her. Our eyes locked, and in that moment, she knew. Guess you'll need this for the gym floor. She had to defer enrollment for a semester. Now every time she complains about starting college late, I just nod and say, yeah, it really sucks when something you worked for gets taken away. Sometimes at night, I wonder if I went too far. Then I remember the 5 AM bus rides in February rain,

watching her post-party pictures from the backseat of an Uber my parents paid for. Cold, maybe, but so was the ditch they left my car in.