Even now a container that smelled of bacon potato soup and warm bread waited for her on Dylan’s bedside table. Sebastian had left a while ago, saying he wanted to give them time alone. But before he’d gone, he’d brought her food.

She’d eat it. Soon. She just couldn’t bring herself to do so quite yet.

She’d just finished texting people to tell them what had happened. Their mom, who’d yet to respond because it was probably the wee hours of the morning in Guinea. Dylan’s friends. Ben. And, after a moment’s debate, Tess and Rudy. She’d supplied their room number and details about hospital visiting hours.

Dylan was staring listlessly at ESPN on the TV mounted on the wall. Since air was no longer passing over his vocal cords, Dylan’s doctor had said it would be best for him to communicate through texts or notes until speech therapists could begin work with him post-surgery. He’d said that for now, Dylan would have his hands full simply adapting to breathing through a tube.

Indeed, Dylan appeared to be concentrating on his breaths as if in a yoga class. His inhales and exhales sounded normal, just much more audible now that they were transitioning through the tube rather than his nose.

She’d never wanted her switched-at-birth calamity to rock Dylan’s world. She still didn’t. But at this point, her preferences on that had been rendered moot. His world had been rocked. And now was the time to say what needed to be said.

She reached over and silenced the television, then waited for him to look at her.

Now’s the time. “Seven months ago, I learned from a DNA test that I’m not biologically related to Mom and Dad. I began searching to find out who my biological parents were and what happened at the hospital the day I was born. I discovered the truth. So, when you’re ready, I’ll answer every question you have. I won’t keep any of it from you.” When he didn’t reply, she said, “Text me your responses, please.” Like all teenagers, he could text at the speed of light.

His thumbs went to work on his phone. She received his effusive answer on her own phone.

Okay.

“I want you to know,” she said, “that the things I discovered didn’t change—not even slightly—how I view you in my mind or in my heart. You’re my brother. You will always be my brother. I very much hope that my DNA won’t change how you view me, either.”

It won’t.