The other half of the room looks like a hurricane struck it, the bed disheveled, toys strewn across the floor. (“They’re not toys, Papa! I am not a child.”) The walls are covered in carefully clipped photos from National Geographic and, randomly, a photograph of Bach printed online because Lily Thompson is so damn weird like that.

And currently, she is standing above her brother, who is lying on the floor, a pink surgical mask wrapped around her face, a flat red case open on her bed filled with plastic medical equipment meant for kids, something she had gotten last Christmas. She had screamed long and loud when she’d opened it, wrapping paper flying furiously around her, thanking Santa for finally giving her what she wanted, Otter and I blinking blearily as it was only five in the morning.

Lily is wearing the dress Anna and Izzie took her shopping for, having told the both of us that she wanted to go with the girls if she had to wear a dress. “I don’t like dresses,” she told me in that tone she did so well. “But if I have to wear one, I wanna go with Anna and Izzie.”

Which led to Noah loudly proclaiming that he too wanted to go with Anna and Izzie, but not because he wanted to wear a dress. He just always wanted to go wherever his sister was. Lily had rolled her eyes but had gripped his hand tightly, and Otter and I both knew what was going to happen then, whether we liked it or not. Wherever Lily went, Noah was sure to follow.

He was our sensitive, kind, sweet little boy.

She was our no-nonsense, wickedly smart little girl.

It was a little scary at first to see her in a more dominant position. I worried for a long time that she would railroad right over Noah and that he would just let it happen, but she was oh so careful with him, treating him like he was something precious. No one messed with Noah Thompson, not while Lily was present. He was older, but she was his protector. He likes pretty things, and while Otter and I don’t give two shits about that, others aren’t always going to be so kind.