We get a refill on rolls and honey-butter and keep eating and talking. Everybody is so relaxed—the warm rolls are probably helping—and for a while I feel that vigilant guardian in my brain relaxing too. We talk about our trip so far, about whether we’re excited about school in the fall (me: yes; Ruth: meh). Darcy tells us about the summer internship she’s doing, helping with an art class at the local juvenile detention center, and also the sculpture project she’s working on.

“Oh, hey!” Darcy points at me. “My mom told me about your Instagram and I just kept staring at it all last night. I’m more a sculptor than a photographer, but seriously, you have such a different, unique eye for things. All your pictures are this almost strange, particular reminder of like, whoa, oh yeah, our weird world is kind of awesome.”

I sit still in my chair, a little stunned. That may be the best thing anyone has ever said to me. She sees what I’m trying to do. What I desperately wish everyone saw.

“Thank you,” I manage. “Wow.”

As in my conversation with Mom, the perfect words have been given to me to express something in my mind that felt unclear before. On this trip, the support and enthusiasm from Ellie and Eddie has felt almost surprisingly wonderful, but this feels like Darcy’s not only seeing and appreciating my pictures, but understanding them at the deepest level.

“I’m totally serious,” she says.

“Me too,” I say.

She smiles, then turns and says something to her mom. The dim lights and smell of barbecue float around me while my mind processes this, because Darcy has managed something kind of miraculous. Ruth is talking, watching things like they’re important, like she’s a little bit glad to be here. But there’s something else too. In only a few words Darcy has made me feel important. Like she really gets me, and she’s glad I’m here.

It all comes together in a very fragile and alarming thought: She’s made me feel how I’d want a sister to make me feel.

And I wonder if Ruth is thinking the same thing.

In the morning, I catch Ruth smiling while she puts on her makeup, and I see Dropkick Murphys playing on her iPod. Definitely a good sign. There’s something fascinating about watching her put on mascara. One of my favorite parts of playing pirates with her when we were kids was spending over an hour in the bathroom while she gave me thick black eyes and bushy eyebrows and a sleek goatee. After Mom had bought us those face paints, of course. I roll to my side.

“Morning,” I say. She clears her throat in acknowledgment. “Where is everyone?”