Leah let me go first. I took my tiles: Y-C-C-O-E-N-L.

I was lucky and managed to use them all in my first turn—C-Y-C-L-O-N-E. I chose some more tiles and slid them into the rack.

Leah used the E in CYCLONE and spelled R-E-D. New word opportunities appeared with each tile flip. After my fourth or fifth turn, I lost myself in our game and the next time I looked at the clock, I realized that two hours had passed.

I guess it was odd that I didn’t break down in tears or try to find out if Leah had known all along that my mother was planning on running out . . . and leaving me behind. Maybe I should have demanded she tell me where my mother had gone, but I was just so used to things happening to me that none of these thoughts came to mind. Instead, after our Scrabble tournament, Leah prepared dinner and I went upstairs to change my clothes.

I was alone in the room where I had last seen my sister only that morning. Her bed was unmade, but beside that, not a trace of her was left behind, like she had never even existed. I laid my head on a pillow and that’s when I felt it. Matilda’s journal hidden beneath the blanket. I opened it and ran my finger along the jaggedness the ripped pages left behind and then I saw it, scribbled quickly in the upper corner.

“I will come back for you.”

I pulled out the purple pen that was tucked into the binding and carefully traced over the words she left for me. I slipped the book under my mattress and that night, when I closed my eyes, I dreamed of fairies.

When I woke the next morning, Leah was sitting on the bed across from mine.

“Hi,” she said as she tucked herself under the blanket.

Instinctively I buried my head into the pillow.

“We need to run some errands. Why don’t you get ready and come downstairs.”

I did as I was told and got dressed, but abbreviated my usual teeth brushing ritual. My mind felt numb and I didn’t want to give it opportunity to wander. Leah was in the middle of preparing breakfast when I came down.

She wore a robe covered in fuchsia and canary flowers and the stroke of her movements against the white canvas of the kitchen looked like a living painting. As I ate, she sat beside me and calmly stirred her tea. Every few minutes her spoon hit the porcelain and it reminded me of bells. The room was quiet except for the sound of her tea music.

“Is she coming back?” I mumbled.

She slipped her lower lip into her mouth and sucked it. “I don’t know.” She put down her cup and left to get dressed. I reached over and picked up her spoon, dropping tiny amber colored orbs around the saucer.