The kitchen is dated, a Formica table in the middle, two folding chairs underneath on a linoleum floor. The fridge is a pale green, and some cabinet doors are missing their hinges. There’s an old electric range. An old microwave. An old everything. Everything in here is old. Secondhand. It might as well be how things looked for me growing up. Different place, same things. For a while, anyway. Before Otter came and saved us. Before Dom came and changed me.

Dom. Jesus, how I wish he was here right now. I don’t know that I’m strong enough to do this on my own. I don’t even know what to say to this little girl, this little girl who might be the only other person in the world aside from Bear and me to understand this life. To understand how it feels. To understand what it means. This little girl who’s furiously scrubbing at dishes in the sink like they’ll never get clean unless she gives it all she’s got. There’s no dishwasher. So maybe this is normal for her.

“I’ll dry,” I say, coming to stand beside her.

She sighs and her shoulders slump. “If you must. There should be a clean dishtowel in that drawer. I did laundry last week.”

There is, and it’s worn and frayed, but it’s clean. She scrubs out a coffee mug, rinses it, then holds it up to her face and squints as she inspects it. Her tongue sticks out between her teeth in concentration. It must pass inspection, because she hands it off to me. “Top cupboard,” she says. “By the fridge.”

I take it without a word and dry it before putting it back in its rightful place.

“Why are you here?” she asks after this goes on for a while.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“That’s comforting,” she says. “Do you often travel hundreds of miles and show up at people’s houses without some kind of thought as to why?”

“Constantly. It’s sort of my thing.”

She stops and looks over at me, cocking her head. “You’re weird,” she finally says. “You’re lucky I like weird.” She hands me a fork and points to a drawer near the sink.

“Very lucky.”

“I’ve never had a brother before,” she says.

“You have two of them.”

“How’s Bear?”

“In general or right at this specific moment?”

She makes a face. “What’s he like?”

I think hard on this. “Like a verbal hurricane,” I finally say. “But in the best way possible.”

“I don’t think hurricanes are considered good things, much less verbal ones.”

“This one is. I don’t know how else to describe him. He’s the greatest thing in the world.”

“That’s quite a lofty proclamation.”

“And it’s not made lightly,” I tell her. “What grade are you in?”

“Sixth.”

“You speak very well for a sixth grader.”

“That didn’t sound condescending at all.”

I roll my eyes. “I was giving you a compliment.”

She shrugs it off. “I like to read,” she mutters. She pops a bubble in the soap.