I crab-crawl backward as fast as I can until I hit the wall and then I crash into it again and again, scrambling to get away until by chance I find open air and tumble back into the hallway. I hook the door with my foot and slam it closed.

I’m shaking everywhere and I can’t stop. I can’t even think. I just grasp my knees to my chest and rock back and forth, back and forth, whimpering like an injured puppy.

Because the crows are eating my brother.

I’m not sure how long I’ve huddled here. But the haze is clearing, and with clarity comes pain, bone-deep and even more shocking than an ice-cold shower. My brother is dead. Dead dead dead. The kid I held in my arms and rocked late into the morning when his monsters kept sleep away. My little Ry-guy, who at eleven years old swore that someday he’d dunk over my head. The boy with the lightning flashes of anger who could go from fierce to gentle in the space of a hug.

Using the wall for support, I gather my feet and stand. Mom needs to know. I need to . . .

There’s that wrongness feeling again. I lean against the wall and take a few deep breaths, letting my brain work it out, even as I dread the conclusions.

Oh.

I move down the hallway, putting one foot in front of the other in plodding, wobbly resolve, toward Mom and Paul’s room. I half know what I’ll find, because Ryan has been dead awhile. Maybe days. Why hasn’t anyone taken away his body? Why did my IV bags go dry?

Why are there so many birds outside?

Double doors lead to my parents’ suite. We have a beautiful home, thanks to Paul, an engineering professor at Ohio State who shares patents for two types of windmills. A stream of light pours diagonally from the skylight above the hallway, bathing the crown molding and the doors below in pale yellow. Like it’s beckoning me home. I’ve been so busy trying to get my team to the state championship that I haven’t taken the time to appreciate what a lovely house I have. What a lovely family.

I don’t bother knocking this time. The door opens with a soft click, and I pad inside on bare feet. Just three steps is all it takes for me to find them. They’re atop the comforter, fully clothed, arms wrapped around each other. My mother’s blond hair streams across the bottom half of Paul’s face, snagged in stubble at least two days old. They seem peaceful, like they’re sleeping. Except that the comforter beneath them is stained and damp with . . . something. And Paul’s wide-open eyes are filmed over with white like curdled milk.