My guilt from yesterday rises, spreading through my chest and up my throat, making me wish I could go back in time and swallow all my vain requests, all my harsh words.

“Glenn, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do. I want you to hear this. The truth is, you’ll never replace Sara, and we’ll never replace your parents. We wouldn’t want to. But sometimes I don’t know how we would have survived this last year without you.”

Glenn clears his throats as he straightens up. He places the bell on the rock between us, his hefty hand engulfing what’s left of mine.

“And we realize this surgery is important to you.”

“It’s fine—”

“No, it’s not. You don’t ask for much. Never have. In the hospital, nurses would find you biting your lip rather than asking for help. Probably because you’ve got your mother’s genes—tougher than a trotline. Too tough for your own good, sometimes,” he says. “So Cora and I know you wouldn’t ask unless it mattered.”

I hold my breath, afraid even the slightest wind may knock the universe off-kilter and stop whatever is happening here.

Glenn’s eyes meet mine.

“So you’re gonna get your surgery.”

I throw my arms around Glenn’s bulky shoulders before he can say anything else.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I want to say more, but words don’t seem to do this moment justice.

“You understand your scars will still be there, right? It’s just your eyes?”

“Yes, yes, just my eyes.” I pull back slightly. “But the money—”

“We talked to the insurance, and they’ll cover part of it.”

“And the other part?”

“You know your aunt Cora. If there’s a solution, she’ll find it. She’s been on eBay all day, selling stuff we don’t need anymore to people with way too much money.” Glenn forces a laugh but then smiles genuinely as he takes my hand.

“We just want to make you happy,” he says. “Are you? Happy?”

“I can’t remember the last time I felt like this,” I say, hugging him again so tight his five-o’clock shadow scratches my cheek.

We hike back down, hand in hand, Glenn walking sideways to help me with my weak knees threatening to buckle.

I smile uncontrollably all the way home. Cora meets us at the doorway, already crying. She hugs me tight, and I let her.

“I scheduled it for four weeks from today,” she says.

I hug her one more time, which seems to surprise her so much that she lets out an audible gasp. She sniffles in my ear as she hugs me back.

“I hope you know, Ava, surgery or no surgery, you’re enough.”