She leans out and giggles, straining against her seat belt. Her cheeks redden, her eyes sparkle, and she glances at me out the corner of her eyes waiting for me to crack down, like I usually do.

Maybe she doesn’t care about the window. She just wants to get a rise out of me.

“It’s too cold,” I chide her. “Stop that.”

Buzz, buzz. Side-eye. Grin.

It’s not about the window. It’s the fun of breaking the rule. Huh. That’s my kid sister all right.

“Come on, goofball. Are you trying to freeze us out?”

I wonder if she finds healing in her own reckless laughter, or if the game just takes her to another place.

The spire of the church pokes up at the end of the block. Cars everywhere. There’s going to be nowhere to park. Should’ve realized that earlier.

The 8-5 Kings better show up in force. My word is law.

And yet I’ve been hearing about it for two days. “Why we gotta show at some kid’s funeral?”

What goes unsaid: there’s a funeral every day in Underhill. For someone too young.

The implication slams me like a hit. Why do we care about this one, and not all the rest? Because of Sheila. Like losing T, like losing a member of our ranks, this one hits home.

“Respect.” I’m in charge. We care when I say we care.

“Breeeeeeeeeeze,” Sheila drawls, pulling for my attention. The window goes all the way down.

“We’re almost there, goofball. Roll it up.”

I reach across and poke her tummy. Hysterics. Kids are so simple sometimes. When I pull my hand back, she stops suddenly.

“Is it bad to laugh on a sad day?” Sheila asks.

Not so simple.

MELODY

They roll in the tiny coffin. Music plays. Organ swelling, choir moaning, that kind of thing. Can’t help but get thick in the throat. Tina’s small hand slips into mine. Her mother sits at her other side, stroking her back. It’s interesting. Often she slides away into her own separate world, not wanting to be touched or bothered. But when she wants comfort, it’s here for her in spades.

In the middle of the service, Sheila comes to me, crying. She slips down the aisle from somewhere behind. I wrap my arms around her and pull her into the pew with us. There is room. We can make room. She tucks herself onto my lap.

A second later, a long shadow crosses us. Brick looms over me.

He takes Sheila’s hand. “Come on back. Sorry,” he says to me.

Sheila presses herself against me tighter. She doesn’t need to worry. I won’t let go. “It’s okay, she can sit with us.”

“She needs to sit with family.”

I shake my head. This is what he gets for sending her away.

“There are all kinds of family.”