I try to say something, but the words won’t come out. My throat feels like it’s about to close, so in the end I just nod quietly, hoping that they already know all the things I can’t say out loud—that I love them, that I’m grateful for everything they’ve done for my sister and me, and that no matter what they say, and no matter how strong Sophie and I may become, I can’t imagine there’ll ever be a day when we’ll stop missing them.

The next day, I head to the bodega right after breakfast. Summer is our busiest season, so with Ma and Pa gone, we wouldn’t be able to manage without me working extra hours. Between our usual customers, and the construction workers who appear all over the city when it’s warm, and the tourists who somehow find themselves in the area, there are days when we can barely keep up with the number of people coming in and out the door.

“I’m gonna go restock the chips aisle,” I say to Erika once the lunch-hour rush is over and we finally have a second to breathe after being at the cash register for what felt like forever.

Restocking isn’t as bad today. I’m almost glad to be able to hide between the shelves and have a few moments of privacy for the first time since my shift started. I’m nearly done with the first box of chips and about to move on to the second when, all of a sudden, I hear a familiar voice nearby.

“Heya.”

I look over my shoulder. I must be imagining things, because there’s no one there. The aisle is completely empty except for me and the pile of boxes that I stacked next to the shelf.

“Matt?”

My heart starts beating faster. I’m definitely imagining things. Maybe the sleepless nights are taking their toll on me. I must be going mad.

I turn back around to keep working, and that’s when I catch a glimpse of something fluorescent in a gap between the bags of chips. Kimmie is peering at me from the other side of the shelf.

“Kimmie.” I sigh, dropping the bags I was holding in my arms.

She comes around the aisle and stands in front of me. She’s wearing that old neon-green jacket that makes her look like an airport employee, and her hair is in a messy bun.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her.

“You haven’t been answering my texts.”

I open my mouth to say something, but I choke on my own words.

“Can we talk?” she asks me.

I’m suddenly too aware of the weird way my arms are hanging limply by my sides, and I feel the need to do something with them, so I put my hands in my pockets.

“What do you wanna talk about?”