Of Blood and Sunset

1148 ADI

The flitting dust catches the soft, golden beams of evening sunlight. I stare at the upper loft and sigh. I’ve got another hour of work at least; it’s filthy up there, and I’ve had to watch her all day. Abby observes me drily, and I can sense premeditation behind her chubby, upturned face. 

“You’re a snot brain,” she says matter-of-factly. 

There it is. 

I roll my eyes. Predictable as ever. I’ve borne this for eight hours, and now it’s little more than wind against a mighty oak. I give her a strained smile. “Thank you, Abby.” I turn to the ladder and begin my ascent, gingerly hoisting the small bucket of water I hold in one hand. My eyes and throat sting as I climb past the first loft, and the bitter dryness of dust clings to my tongue by the time I approach the rafters. No one even comes to the upper loft except me. Why do I have to clean it? 

I pause near the top of the ladder, waiting for another inevitable comment from Abby, but nothing comes. Then, the ladder wobbles, and I freeze, grasping the nearest rung with white-knuckled fervor. The wobbling stops and I glance down, suspicion driving my gaze. 

Abby stands maybe two paces away from the ladder’s base, with a couple blond curls distinctly out of place. By her feet, I notice scuffs in the dirt, betraying recent, hasty movement. Her wide eyes sparkle with feigned innocence as I glare her way. What a little darling.

“I could’ve gotten hurt, Abby. I’m like fourteen feet in the air!” 

Her lower lip sticks out in a pout. “It was an accident.” 

I roll my eyes. “I bet it was. Well, no more accidents, okay?” 

She huffs, and I can just make out the words, “It really was.” I shake my head and keep going. It would be nice if my parents watched their own kid for once. I’ve pestered God about that multiple times, but it’s never seemed to do much good. I laugh bitterly to myself.

“She’s only six years old.” Well then, why don’t you have more patience when you deal with her, Dad? “Siblings are a blessing.” So why do both you and Mom seem to prefer it when we’re not around? 

“It’s good practice for when you have your own wife and kids.” Oh, sure, because you get along so well with Mom and with us. You clearly know what you’re talking about. 

I reach the upper loft and slam the bucket down a little too hard; a bit of water sloshes onto the wood. Whatever. Just don’t pretend you mean all that stuff when you say it. I’d care if it came from anyone other than you. 

I stretch, move the bucket to a corner, and start sweeping. I get maybe twenty seconds of silence before Abby’s shrill, little voice cuts through my thoughts. “Gideonnn…” She drags the last half of the name into next week. “Can we play a game?” 

I don’t bother glancing down at her. “No.” 

“Pleeeease?” 

“Nope.” 

“Whyyy? I’ll be nice.” 

“You’ve had all day to be nice. I said no.” 

“Fine.” She plops down in the dirt next to the base of the ladder. “You’re mean.” 

“Mm-hmm, I’m the worst.” 

This general line of conversation persists as I continue to sweep, resisting the urge to send some dirt down the hole where the ladder rests. I try my best to ignore the steady torrent of childish insults and generally obnoxious noises erupting from my sister below. I peek down at her. By now, she’s learned that my patience can’t last forever. I can’t win with force. I can’t win with endurance. There’s no way I was this bad eight years ago. An idea begins to form. 

“Okay, Abby, I’ll play a game with you,” I call down.

“Really?” she says, clamoring to her feet, nearly smacking the ladder in her excitement. 

“But,” I add, holding up one finger, “you don’t get to ask me to play any more games until tomorrow.”

She wrinkles her nose, pondering this; it doesn’t take long. “Okay!” 

So far so good—but I want confirmation. “So it’s a deal?” I ask. 

“Yeah!” 

“You promise?” I watch her intently. In her little world, promises are unbreakable. 

A pause—she’s definitely thinking. I lean on the broom and wait. “Yeah, I promise!” She stares up at me. “Can you come down now?”  

“Hmm… not yet, but don’t worry. I can play from up here.” She eyes me with suspicion. I twirl the broom and smile down at the little monster. I’ve got her now. “I think I want to play the quiet game,” I say, “but no one is allowed to move. Three, two, one, go!” I leap away from the ladder the instant I say “go” and return a moment later, greeted with shouts of indignation. I shrug. “Oh, darn, looks like you won.” 

“That’s not fair!” She bellows. “That’s not… fair.” Her little face crumples and turns red as grief overwhelms her nonexistent capacity for hardship and suffering. I cross my arms. “Well, anyway, I’ve got a lot of work to do. Stay in the barn or I’m telling Mom.” 

Telling Mom would accomplish nothing. If Abby goes missing, that’s my fault. If she pokes one of the cows and it kicks her, that’s my fault. If she eats a weird bug she found in the woods and her face swells up and we have to use the healing leaves, that’s also my fault. The threat seems to work, though. Abby informs me once again that this is all unfair. She slumps near the ladder, defeated. 

Satisfied, I return to my task. It only takes a few minutes to finish the sweeping and I move on to the annoying part—the scrubbing. It’s just a stupid loft; it’s not like the Brennans are all going to eat off this floor or something. Heck, the animals don’t even use this spot. Sometimes I wonder if my outside chores and constant role as babysitter have a deeper connection. Did my parents even want kids at all? To be fair, I wouldn’t want Abby as my kid. Still, as I think about it, I feel a little wrong blaming her for all of her Abby-isms. 

Maybe she just wants to be noticed. 

The thought fades as another forcibly replaces it. At least she gets noticed when she’s loud. When I try the same thing, I’m told I’ll end up in Twilight. I work silently, letting myself enjoy the lack of chatter from below. If Abby isn’t talking, she’s usually doing something dumb, but I haven’t heard the doors open, and there’s not much for her to ruin in the barn. Maybe she’s actually given up. 

Before I’m able to bask in this fleeting glory, small, grubby hands grasp the top rung of the ladder, and my sister peeks up at me. “Hi.” She grins as she crawls over the top of the ladder and scrambles to the loft’s floor. 

I feel my jaw tighten. Really, God? Really? I couldn’t have just a few minutes? “What are you doing up here?” I struggle to keep my tone even.

She blinks at me, almost as if she’s surprised that I’m upset. “Can I watch?” I stare at her, incredulous. She’s never ventured more than eight or nine rungs up the ladder. When did she stop being afraid of heights? She beams at me. “I did it. I did it all by myself.” 

“Yeah—I thought you hated being up high.” 

“No, I don’t!” She frowns, clearly offended by such an accusation. Then she glances down through the hole where the ladder rests, and instantly, terror sweeps across her face. I sigh and step toward her, reaching to pull her away. Nothing has changed. 

As soon as I’m close enough, she grabs my arm without breaking eye contact with the hole and her fingernails dig into my skin. I move her to the corner. I don’t have anything set up at the ladder’s base to break someone’s fall, but there’s no way she’ll attempt to descend it on her own. “Alright, just stay in this spot and don’t make any noise, got it?” 

She nods, and I get back to work. She remains quiet, but any sense of privacy I might have felt is shattered. I can feel her watching me. I glance over at the other side of the barn, where there is another section of the loft nestled just below the rafters, connected to this section by a long, thick plank nailed into the wood. I don’t have to clean over there today, but Abby doesn’t know that, and she’s still clearly traumatized by the ladder.

She realizes that I’m watching her. “Can I help? I know how to clean things,” she pipes up. 

“You can. Here’s what would really help me. You stay right there and keep being quiet, and I’m gonna go over here and work.” I put the bucket down, pick up the broom, and step onto the plank. I half walk, half dance to the other side, ending with a little bow in Abby’s direction. 

“Noo!” Fresh betrayal contorts her face as she realizes what I’ve done, and she bursts into tears and stomps her foot. “Come back! Come back! No one ever stays!”

I make a show of considering this. “Well, you didn’t say the magic word.”

She composes herself. “Please?” 

I put a finger on my chin. “Hmm.” 

“Can you please come back? Pleeease?” 

I wait a second for effect. “No.” 

Foot stomps and wailing ensue once again as I turn away and make a show of sweeping the floor. Eventually, she quiets down, and I glance back in her direction. She’s sitting a few feet away from the plank with her back to me. I smile to myself. She’s waiting for me to crack. She’s seen Mom ignore Dad when he won’t do something. It drives him crazy every time. But I’m not Dad, so good luck, stupid. 

She continues to wait, and I watch her as I drag the broom halfheartedly through the dust. Something about this feels remarkably unfair, but not just unfair to me. Abby didn’t ask for this either. I’ll go back—once I’ve gotten a little revenge. That seems fair. “Hey, whatcha doin’ over there,” I call out. 

She hops up. “Are you coming back now?” 

“Ohhh, no, I think I like it over here.” I pause. “But you could always come over here—unless you’re a chicken.” She scowls at me with a gaze that could melt iron. Good. I feel better already. 

“I am not a chicken!” she shouts. 

“You are too. Bok bok bok bok!” I put extra effort into the last “bok.” All things considered, I think it’s a decent chicken impression. “Chickennnn,” I add, emphasizing the second syllable with a sing-song tone. She just stares. She’s probably trying to come up with something really nasty to say back. I’ll give it another ten seconds. That’s probably enough. Then I’ll go back. I turn away and resume my mock sweeping, counting down from “ten” in my head. Right after I get to “five,” I hear her.  

“Gideon…” 

“Yep?” 

“…Gideon… help.” Her voice sounds wobbly, but with a weird edge to it; she sounds hesitant, scared. I whirl around to face her, and the broom falls from my hands. She stands shakily on the board, not quite halfway across the gap; pure fright flashes in her eyes.

I swallow hard, hoping she can’t sense my own fear. “Um, alright. So, Abby, can you take one step back for me?” 

She vigorously shakes her head “no.” 

I instinctively glance down before I can catch myself. She follows my gaze. She’s nearly twenty feet above the barn floor, and I didn’t put any hay bales below the plank; I didn’t think I’d be over here. “No, no! Abby! Don’t look down, okay? It won’t help. It’s a really big board; you’re gonna be just fine.” I struggle to keep my voice steady as panic squeezes my insides. 

She stands like a statue; I’m not sure she’s even breathing. If I’d just been the bigger person, we’d both be on the other side of the loft right now, and this never would have happened. I make a promise to myself to have thicker skin in the future, at least where Abby is concerned.

“Alright, if you can’t move, that’s okay, that’s okay. I’m, uh, I’m just gonna come to you.” I shuffle a pace or two towards her. She remains rooted to the spot. I motion for her to reach out her hand to me, but she doesn’t budge. I inch closer. Closer. One more step and I’ll be able to lift her. What possessed her to do this? She’s never been anywhere close to this high up. The insult was nothing new. Usually, she won’t even jump the last two stairs, no matter what I call her. 

Something falls into place in my thoughts, as if completing a puzzle with one, crucial, missing piece, and time seems to slow as I observe her reaching for me, watching me. It was me—she just wanted more than anything to be around me.

Tears cloud my vision, and I snap back to the moment as a scream pierces the air. Abby begins to lose her balance as the board sags under our combined weight, and she flails her arms wildly at me. Panic rises in my throat; I grasp at her hand with nervous ferocity. But she tips backwards just before I can take hold. She teeters on the edge of the board for just a second, screaming my name before losing her balance completely. I leap, trying one more time to grab her hand, but it’s too late. 

I cling to the board in horrified silence, my fingers digging into the wood as Abby’s small body plummets and smashes into the floorboards with a dull crunch. 

She lies motionless, wordless, expressionless. The world spins and slows around me as I stumble to the ladder, half running, half falling, then descend five rungs at a time, maybe more. I jump the last part of the distance, and my right leg makes a strange popping noise when I land. I try to run to her, but the same leg buckles under my weight. It doesn’t matter; I ignore it. Nothing matters except this. 

Oh, God… please… no. No! No! No! You stupid, stupid child! Why did you have to follow me? I fall to my knees beside her, shock and guilt engulfing my anger. I didn’t mean to. 

Abby stares at me with wide eyes, her chest barely moving. One of her legs is bent the wrong way and small pools of blood converge from underneath her head and her lower back. Her breathing slows, now hijacked by shallow coughs. Blood trickles from her parted lips, and her little blue and white dress soaks up the deep red around her. 

She’s dying… I could get help, I could… Pain etches itself into her expression with every tiny breath, but the fear in her eyes is far worse. No, I won’t leave you. I’m here. “Abby,” I choke out. Her eyes dart to mine. They’re such a deep blue. How have I never noticed how pretty they were? This was the only person that really wanted my time, my effort, my attention, and I didn’t want to give it. 

What’s wrong with me? “I’m… so…” My voice catches in my throat. The tears won’t come, but the words won’t either. A small stream of blood touches the knee of my pants and the trickle from her mouth flows more freely now. Her breathing stops and her fingers twitch in my direction. I take her small, cold hand in mine, and I watch her fade. 

Unwanted memories flash through my mind—friends, classmates, others in the family, all these people I wish I could impress. I have to fight so hard just to get them to talk at all, but she… She loved me. 

She was the only one who loved me. 

I don’t know how long I kneel there.

Like coming out of a dream, I become aware of the dirt, and the wind whistling outside the barn’s heavy wooden doors. I remember to breathe, and I stand. “I’ll… I’ll get a teacher,” I say to her lifeless, distant eyes and ashen face. “I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll be right back.” 

As I trudge to the barn’s entrance, a pinching sensation jolts up my leg, and I gasp in pain. Good. I deserve that. I stare at the massive wooden doors. I’ll find a teacher, and he’ll make it right—then no one else will know what I did until I’m long gone. Maybe I can find another settlement, one far away, one without relatives or family friends. She won’t ever have to see my face again. It’ll be better that way. Or I’ll end up in Twilight after all. That’s more likely. 

Yeah, you were right all along, Dad. 

I reach to push the doors, but something from outside pulls them wide open before I can react. The glare of the evening sun pierces my gaze as a dark silhouette waits in the golden light. The air catches in my throat, and I take a step back. The figure approaches me slowly, and I recognize his loose white robes and dark skin. 

Oh no. 

I clear my throat, “Mr. Jotham.” My voice comes out hoarse and scratchy. 

He smiles at me, but I sense sadness in it. “Gideon, it’s alright.” 

A tear fights its way out despite my best efforts, and another follows. I clear my throat again, trying to regain mastery over my voice. “I… um.” I meet his soft, brown eyes and for a second, I hate them. I know what he’s doing. It’s one of those, “You can tell me anything,” looks. Why bother? “You already know, don’t you,” I choke out. 

“Yes.” He places a hand on my shoulder and walks past me towards Abby’s corpse. He kneels beside her in the dirt, and I turn away, the tears now too numerous to hide. In a few minutes, she’ll be back, and she won’t love me anymore. She’ll hate me. I should just leave. 

“I will not hate you,” I hear Mr. Jotham say. 

I shake my head. “You don’t count. You’re not allowed to hate me.” 

“That does not mean that I would want to.” 

I steal a glance in his direction; he’s still tending to Abby, his hand on her forehead. 

“Please don’t—until I’ve gotten out.” 

He stops and meets my gaze. 

“Gideon, she will not hate you either.” I can make out tears in his eyes as well. They’re tears for her. He wouldn’t cry over me. 

I pause as I realize that he’s taken his hand away, and he’s still watching me. He’s waiting for me to leave. “Gideon, you know that I am unable to lie. She will still love you. Do you not believe me?” 

A sob threatens to rip itself from my throat, but I hold it in. No, she won’t. I just breathe, staring through the open doors at the dusky world outside. I have to get out, now. “Are you going to stop me?”

“No, Gideon. You have been forced to do far too much already.” He knows there’s nothing he could say. 

I nod. “Please tell her I tried to love her.” Then, I walk away, and I don’t look back. 

Streaks of pink and orange stain the sunlit sky as I trudge aimlessly through New Rock Creek. The pinching sensation jolts up my leg with every step I take, and my knee feels wrong. That’s fine. I don’t mind limping. No one really notices me as I wander, first through the south side of the settlement, then the fields, then the woods at New Rock Creek’s edge. I push onward. It doesn’t matter where I end up as long as I’m far away from here. 

A subtle fog rises with the purple haze of dusk, and I’m glad that I’m leaving at the end of the day, when no one who works outside is still here to interrogate me. A boy of fourteen shouldn’t be out alone close to the woods after sundown. Around here, everyone knows that. 

I doubt they’ll come after me. Once Mr. Jotham brings her back and she tells them what I did, I suppose there won’t be much of a point. 

The misty air plays tricks on my mind as I continue, each tree bearing claws and each shadow a pair of eyes. I’ve heard stories, most of them I suspect are to keep me away from the woods and the reclamation zones. But now, every creeping thought and every dark possibility roots itself as potential fact in my aching mind. 

The waning sunlight filters through the trees’ dark silhouettes as the purple thickens. Many people must know by now, and I wonder: How many of them hate me? How many already hated me?

I push farther into the woods; everything seems foreign in the fog as purple fades to dim blue. This might be the farthest I’ve ever gone. As I walk, trees start to become scarce and the ground hardens. I trip twice on wiry vines hugging the ground. My good leg starts to hurt; I’m overusing it. Eventually, fog settles all around me, and trees stop altogether. I can make out other shapes now, rectangular, dark, deformed. I stop and examine the ground. Rubble. I must be in reclamation. 

I fish for the orb I keep in my pocket and hold it aloft as it slowly glows to life. Warm, vibrant light emanates from its small structure and forces its way through the thick air. The dark shapes transform to a hollow, lifeless gray as shattered windows and broken down doors gape at me like the mouths of giant, eyeless corpses, vines spewing from them like wispy, outstretched tongues. 

Even the light in my hand feels powerless. The hair on the back of my neck rises as an ominous feeling cements itself in my mind. It’s like dead people are watching me—and they’re all angry. “God,” I whisper, “is it okay if we still talk? I understand if not.” 

I press on, giving each building a wide berth and keeping to open spaces when I can. I feel so exposed, so naked in this place, and I don’t know why. Part of me wants to push all the way to Twilight and get it all over with. Then I wouldn’t have to worry if they were right; I’d know they were. I stop for a moment and try to stretch my leg, then stifle a scream as pure agony erupts from my knee. It seems I won’t be going much farther tonight. 

I close my eyes and listen to the eerie howling of the wind. God, are you still here? Do you still see me? I drag myself forward another hundred paces or so until a building on my right distinguishes itself from everything around it. Two pointed towers reach into the sky, and one of the windows, large, circular and made with stained-glass, remains intact. Vines surround the building, but they are unable to scale it completely. 

Maybe it’s a church. That would be ironic. 

I take a deep breath, walk up to the door, and take my chances. It would at least be somewhere to spend the night. The door swings open with a jagged creak, and I creep inside, still clutching my orb. Its light leaps to every wall as I stand in the doorway, transfixed by the beauty of ancient art. Massive arches and pillars overlap with each other from where I stand to the end of the hall. Stained glass windows adorn the walls on both sides, one window within each arch. 

The ceiling stretches as high as our barn, maybe higher. I can only imagine what this place must have looked like in ancient times, especially with the sunlight shining through the windows. 

Long wooden benches stretch from one end of this place to the other, all facing the front. Pews—I guess it is a church, after all. A wave of exhaustion crashes over me, and I sit down, nursing my leg. I just want to sleep. 

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” 

I whip around at the sound of a man’s voice, and I see Mr. Jotham sitting in the pew directly behind mine. 

“What…how did you…” 

He smiles. “Why would I not?”

“Did you follow me here?” 

“No.” 

I don’t say anything for a moment. He’s a teacher. I guess he can do whatever he wants. I don’t know. “Is she alright now?”

“She is. She asked about you, actually.” He holds out a mug of steaming liquid—tea, I realize. “She said you hurt your leg.”

How would she know that? Was she somehow watching me the whole time? Clawing for breath in the dirt and still watching me. “Maybe it should stay hurt,” I say, as a wave of nausea and pain washes over me. I take a deep breath and lean more heavily on the pew.

Mr. Jotham raises an eyebrow and moves the mug in my direction. “I fail to see how that would solve anything,” he says. I stare at the mug in silence, and he waits, keeping it right in front of me. 

“So…” I look at him, ignoring the tea. “Did God tell you I was here, or was it your idea to be here? Are you gonna try to make me come back?” 

He regards one of the windows, a far-off look in his eye. “God told me that you needed help. And yes, I was going to ask you to come back. Your family needs you.” 

I smile ruefully. “Doesn’t feel like much of a family sometimes. Did God tell you about that part too?” 

He turns back to me. “He didn’t have to tell me that part.” 

I meet his gaze. “That’s really nice, but it’s always been like this, and no one has done anything to change it.” 

“Much has been done, Gideon, but God is still softening your parents’ hearts. They are children in His eyes, just as you are, and His grace will not falter towards them—just as it will not falter towards you.” 

I don’t care about grace. I just want things to change. And now it’s too late. “Look, I’m just tired of this. You don’t know what it’s like.” I lean closer to him. “You’re not me.” 

He holds my stare. “No, I am not, and I cannot experience your pain through your eyes. But I deeply desire to understand it better. Would you help me do that?” I blink at him. Is this a trick question? How am I supposed to respond? He notices my hesitation and continues. “God is not disgusted by your anger and your doubt, nor is He intimidated by your sin. I assume you have heard the parable of the missing sheep.” 

Yes, many times. I sigh. “Look, I get that part. I know God leaves the ninety-nine to go after the one and all, but what if the ninety-nine don’t even want the one around?” 

He nods. “An excellent question; that would be terribly unfair of them, but consider this. How many of the ninety-nine need to want the one? How many would be enough?”

I have no idea. I lie down in the pew and angrily brush away the beginning of tears. “I don’t know. Just a few, I guess. One would be fine, actually, if they really cared.” 

Mr. Jotham leans over me from behind my pew and brings the mug so close that I feel its heat on my face. “Drink.” 

I’m tired of fighting. I sit up with a groan and oblige, draining it entirely. The pinching in my leg slowly dissipates as something pops inside my knee, and I lie down in the pew again. Mr. Jotham sits back down, and we stay like that for a while. 

“Gideon, what if I were to make a bargain with you?” 

I open my eyes and sigh through my nose. I was nearly asleep. “What kind of bargain? Is it one where I end up coming back?” 

“Yes, precisely.” 

“Okay, what is it then?” You’re not tricking me. 

“I will make it simple, Gideon. You return with me tonight, and if no one shows that they truly want you to stay, I will let you leave, and I will never bother you again. You will be free of me and everything in your past if you choose it to be that way.” 

“Is that a promise?” I sit up enough to give him a side eye. He’s betting a lot on this. 

“Yes, it is.” 

I raise an eyebrow. “Can we go after I get some sleep?” 

He smiles. “No, we cannot.” 

“Alright.” I roll out of the pew and throw him a pointed look as I land. “I guess I have nothing to lose.” 

Mr. Jotham offers me a hand up, and I take it. “Would you be willing to walk with me all the way to my house,” I ask. “I—I’ll probably turn back if you’re not there to talk me out of it.” 

He puts both of his hands on my shoulders and leans down to look me in the eye. “Of course.” He grins. “I do enjoy talking.” 

Mr. Jotham leads me through the fog back to New Rock Creek, and the trek seems much shorter this time. The night is almost pleasant now that my leg doesn’t hurt. We step into a clearing and approach one of the wheat fields on the outskirts, and the fog breaks enough for me to see the moon. Something about it comforts me, as if the face of God shines on me tonight. I glance down at my shoes. That’s a stupid thing to think. 

We walk quietly through the center of the settlement, north toward my house. The way is shockingly silent; I was expecting a small crowd to know what I’d done and to be waiting for my return so they could see a murderer. Why does sin fascinate them so much when they pride themselves on being so above it?

Among the houses, only one has lights on in the windows—my parents are waiting for me. My body starts to shake uncontrollably, and breathing seems harder than it should be. Mr. Jotham’s hand finds my shoulder and steadies me. I draw a shaky breath and glance up at his face.

“This is it,” I whisper. 

“Yes, it is,” he whispers back, and his smile gives me courage. 

The front door opens. Two figures, a man and a woman, stand in the doorway, shadows in front of the soft, yellow light within. I step forward, hesitating with each movement. My parents wait, and I sense their eyes on me. In the warm glow from inside the house, I can just make out a shiny reflection of light on my mother’s cheek—a tear—for me. Something in me knows—she wants to run to me. 

I see her head turn. She’s looking at my father. Is she asking him if she can come to me? God—that would be enough. If she ran to me right now and didn’t care what he thought, that would be more than enough. I’d stay. I promise. 

She doesn’t move. A lump rises in my throat as I continue to watch. Hot, angry tears wait behind my eyes, poised as I turn to Mr. Jotham. He meets my eyes knowingly, and I hear him whisper, “Just wait.” 

“I’m not waiting long,” I whisper back. I hold my breath. Are they even happy to see me? Mom… Am I not worth at least this? 

Another shadow, much smaller, darts from the open door, effortlessly pushing through my parents. Abby crashes into me with full force and wraps me in a bear hug; I can only stare. She pokes her chin into my ribs and grins up at me. “Hi!” 

The dam breaks. The pent-up torrent of tears bursts from my weary eyes as I kneel to be eye level with my sister. “Hi,” I choke out.

She wipes one of my tears away with a finger. “Don’t cry, I’m all better now.” 

That’s not… that’s not the point. I sniffle, grinning at her through the blur of tears and relief, and it’s my turn to wrap her in a hug. “I’m so sorry, Abby. I’m so, so sorry.” 

She pulls away from the hug just enough to look at my face. “It’s okay. It was just an accident.” Then she goes right back to her hug. I hear her whisper in my ear, “No more accidents, okay?” 

Words are too hard, so I just nod and hold her tighter than I’ve ever held anyone. She still loves me—and I know now—that’s enough for me. 

I’m not going anywhere.

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