Though I’m not the most athletic, throwing a ball to Anam isn’t too difficult a task. And if it makes my sister smile, it’s worth it. “Say less,” I say, grabbing a jean jacket off the back of my chair. “I’m ready.”

Our backyard isn’t particularly grand. Aside from our shed, it’s basically all cement—which is typical, given it’s New York City and we’re not ridiculously wealthy. The only greenery are plants my mom bought from Home Depot, lining the fence sectioning our backyard from the Ali family’s.

A few chairs and a small circular table are hidden in the shade of the shed, toward the back of the yard, and closer to our house is a volleyball net. In middle school, my dad helped Anam set it up. It was back when our parents saw our passions as silly little hobbies, so Baba was more than happy to buy Anam everything she needed to create her own little volleyball court.

In fact, I recall him encouraging her to play in the first place. “It’ll get you out of the house, Anam,” he used to tease before he’d turn his attention toward me. “Maybe you could join her, Poppy.”

“Or we could go to the movie theater again,” I’d say, and all of us would laugh.

But that feels like a lifetime ago now.

Anam and I stand on one side of the net, and I throw her the ball while she practices sets.

The set of her lips is determined, her hair tied into a tight ponytail, though a few flyaway blue hairs still fall into her face.

“Are you nervous for your next match?” I ask, tossing her another volleyball. She moves instantly, meeting the ball with the pads of her fingers and sending it in a high arc. “You were great against Nazifa’s team last week.”

The ball hits one of the red plastic cups we set up along the length of the net. She exhales a breath of relief before turning to me and shrugging.

I take the nonanswer as a yes, she is nervous.

“You’re playing against Durham, right?” I ask, reaching out to pick up the volleyball as it rolls back toward me. “Isn’t their captain slated for Duke University?”

Anam heaves a sigh. “Yeah. They’ve been scouting her since freshman year. She’s the best libero I’ve ever seen.”

I toss her the ball. “I’m not worried. You are the best setter I’ve ever seen.”

“You don’t exactly watch a lot of volleyball games,” Anam says, but there’s a small smile on her lips as she sets the ball again.

“I watch enough,” I say, watching the ball knock out another plastic cup. “How many games have you had over the years? Like fifty? I’ve been to all of them.”