Maggie had prepared the guest rooms while we were still on the road, swallowing her grief long enough to break out fresh bedding and clean towels. I’m pretty sure the process was a sort of good luck charm for her; if she got the rooms ready, we’d show up alive. As it was, when bedtime came, she apologized for having only three guest rooms, since the other two spare rooms had been converted, respectively, into a home theater and a study. Like there’s anything “only” about a house with six bedrooms. George and I grew up in a house with three, and ours were connected enough to practically count as a single room. Three guest rooms meant one each for Alaric, Becks, and the Doc. I’ve slept on couches before. It doesn’t bother me.

Besides, I wanted to stare at those numbers until they started making sense. After almost two hours, I wasn’t getting any closer. I sighed. “I’m missing something. I know I’m missing something.”

Don’t be so hard on yourself, said George. You’re tired.

“That’s easy for you to say,” I snapped, before I could stop myself. Then I froze, casting a careful glance toward Maggie. I was expecting… I don’t know what I was expecting. I get a lot of reactions to the fact that I still talk to my sister. Most of them aren’t good ones.

Maggie’s fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. She was looking at me thoughtfully, head tilted slightly to one side. “She really talks to you, doesn’t she?” she asked. “It’s not just you talking to her. She talks back.”

“Hell, half the time she starts it,” I said, half-defensively. “I know it’s weird.”

“Well, yes, it’s weird. Technically, I think it’s insane. But who am I to judge?” Maggie shrugged. “I live in a house most people view as the setting of a horror movie waiting to happen, with an army of security ninjas and a couple dozen epileptic dogs for company. I don’t think I’m qualified to pass judgment on ‘weird.’ ”

That’s a new one, said George, bemused.

“Tell me about it,” I muttered, adding, louder, “That’s, uh, different.”

“At least you know that you’re crazy. That means you have the potential to recover.”

I hesitated. There are a lot of people who’d say that my steadfast refusal to give up on George means I’ll never get over my grief. I sort of hope they’re right. I don’t want to get over it. “Well, um, thanks,” I said. The words sounded even lamer outside my head than they did inside.