As much as I wish the context was different, it feels almost miraculous to hear my sister say that I am the most significant person in her life. The sentiment only makes me feel worse for what I did to her.

“I know it doesn’t matter,” I say, “but I really let Gideon have it after he kissed me.”

“Thank you. It actually does matter.”

Neda stops looking out the window and turns toward me. I hear her swallow, hard, as though she’s trying not to cry.

“Boston’s only a couple hours away from New Haven. You’ll have to slum it with us Yalies sometime.” She touches my shoulder and squeezes it.

“I’d love to.”

If we could reconcile after the year we’ve had, after something like this, I think my sister and I will be able to get through anything together.

Once our car reaches the front of the line, we’re instructed to roll down our windows, pull up our sleeves, and hold still as the nurse or volunteer or whoever he is preps the injection site on our arms. I twist around in my seat, so he can give me the shot on my right side.

“I’m left-handed,” I explain, but he’s not keen on making conversation.

Admittedly, I’m a little disappointed. I was hoping we’d get vaccinated by someone who would cheer us on with fist bumps and rejoice in the relief we’re entitled to feel. Instead, he pricks my skin without much warning and tells us that we may experience some soreness, fever, chills, and fatigue for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours—but if the symptoms persist, we should contact our doctor. All that time, trapped in our house, filled with anxiety and dread, and just like that, it’s over. It all feels so… anticlimactic.

“We survived,” Neda mumbles as I drive away.

But did we? I wonder. Nothing looks like it did back in October. But maybe some things needed to change. Maybe some things had to get worse before they could get better.

GABRIELA

My heart is racing so fast that I feel like it might pop out of my chest and speed off to run a 10K or something. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I practically spent my entire high school career riding along in a car on the way to Parisa’s place. The Naficy house was like a second home to me. But it’s been a while now. The last time I saw Parisa in person, we were hanging out in the parking lot with Wes after school, helping him write a ballad about best friends who desert you. I left for work and they left for band practice and we casually said goodbye like we always do. God, we were so naïve. We had no idea what was ahead of us.