It was then that I could remember her with a startling clarity. It wasn’t haze. It wasn’t muted. And if I push, it’s the first thing I can remember.

She said, “The rain has stopped. I’m glad. I don’t like it when it rains for days and days.”

I was eating that Pop-Tart, trying not to inhale it, because I didn’t know when we’d get more, as this was the last one. The TV was on, and the screen was a little fuzzy because the rabbit ears were broken. There were cartoons on. I’m sure of that.

“Why don’t we go outside?” she asked me.

“Okay,” I said, spraying crumbs onto my lap.

“Okay,” she said.

We did, later. And we’d walked hand in hand, and I was jumping in the puddles, and gasping dramatically at all the worms on the sidewalk, and pointing out everything I could show her. And even though I was young, even though I can’t remember much after that, I knew even then that this was important. Because this was different. She was here—really here—with me. And even though I didn’t know it then, it was the most I’d ever get from her. It felt complete. I couldn’t put a word to it, I couldn’t understand this little light that was burning in my chest, but it felt good. Her hand was in mine and it felt good.

I never felt like that with her again. Not really.

I tell myself there was good in her.

But it doesn’t outweigh the rest.

IT’S MORE than I expected.

That’s the first thought I have as we sit in the idling SUV, parked next to the curb.

It’s more.

Maybe because I know where she’d come from. That shitty fucking apartment, that place where she’d run from, leaving us behind. And while I don’t think she’d come directly here, this was her end result. This is where she’d planted her roots. Izzie said they’d been here for a few years.

So yes. It’s more.

The house isn’t too shabby. There are flowers along the sides. The lawn is wild and unkempt. There is a car in the cracked driveway, rusted and up on a jack. There’s a tire missing. There’s a tree next to the house, and it’s swaying gently.

“We don’t have to do this now,” Otter says.

I smile tightly. “Might as well. We’re not expected at the funeral home until tomorrow. I don’t want to stay here longer than we have to.”

He looks at the house. “I don’t like this place. I don’t like what it’s doing to you.”

“It’s not doing anything to—”

He turns to look at me sharply. “Don’t. Don’t pretend. Not with me. That’s not fair.”