“That one’s mine. All of it.”

Taku, the younger brother, pointed up at the sky. It was the stone steps out front, right after dinner. Two moons hung overhead.

“Huh? Which one?”

“The small one.”

Ken, his older brother, snorted.

“That’s not a moon. That’s a pea. A little pea.”

The two moons really were different sizes. One was round and bright, full and glowing. The other was smaller, dimmer, a smudge of gray.

“The big one’s mine. That’s the one people photograph. That’s the one on the calendar. Remember when the teacher told us to draw the moon and you drew the small one and got marked wrong?”

”…The teacher was wrong.”

For what it’s worth, the small moon didn’t have a name. Nobody had ever given it one. People talked about the big moon all the time — how full it was, how beautiful. Nobody said a word about the small one.

“Mine shines too, you know.”

“Barely.”

“It’s round!”

“It’s tiny.”

Taku kicked his feet against the step. It stung, losing an argument he couldn’t win no matter what he said. His brother’s moon was big, bright, had a name, and showed up on calendars. His moon was a pea.

Their grandfather, sipping tea on the porch, set down his cup.

”…Those two, you know. They’ve been drifting closer.”

“Closer?”

“Just a little, every night. Pulling at each other. The big one and the little one. Someday they’re going to collide.”

Taku and Ken looked up at the sky at the exact same moment.

“When they crash, who wins?”

“Neither of them.” Their grandfather gave a short laugh. “When they collide, they both shatter. They break apart into dust, and a thin ring forms in the sky where they used to be. The moons disappear. Both of them.”

Nobody said anything for a moment.

Then Taku shot to his feet.

“So it’s a tie!”

“What?”

“A tie! Yours disappears too!”

”…It hasn’t even happened yet.”

“But it will, right? Grandpa, it’s going to happen, right?”

“Long after you two are dead and gone, mind you.”

“Doesn’t matter! It’s going to happen. That’s settled!”

Taku flopped down flat on his back across the stone step. For the first time all evening, he didn’t look up at the moon at all.

“Nobody remembers my little one anyway. If it disappears, I’m the only one who’ll mind. But yours — everyone will mind. The photos, the calendars. All of it.”

Ken didn’t argue back.

For the first time, he looked up at his own moon — big, celebrated, with a name of its own — and he looked worried.