Angela steps back. “You got stung so badly you couldn’t walk the two blocks to the house. You wouldn’t let me leave you to go get help, so I washed your legs and arms with seawater. Used sand to remove the venom. You were burned everywhere, so I had to cover you in sand and scrape off the jelly stingers with a seashell.”

Jellyfish. I’ve been terrified of jellyfish since I was a kid, when a huge bloom came into La Jolla Cove. The normally light-blue waterline was covered in translucent pink and purple mushroom tops for days. In my mind, I’d separated the bloom’s arrival and the pain of the jellyfish sting from the trauma of my sister trying to suffocate me, standing above me with a soda can and pail empty of sand and a vacant expression; I remembered both events without realizing they were the same memory. Understanding clicks into place. Almost. “Why was I pinned? Beneath two massive branches?”

Angela shakes her head. “You were in so much pain, you couldn’t lie still. You were scratching the stingers and spreading the venom. You were near delirious. You don’t remember any of that? Mom bathed you in vinegar afterward.”

We look at each other. My sister wasn’t trying to harm me or acting out because I stole her doll that morning. She was trying to help me. Relief courses down my limbs. Through a watery gaze, I see Angela’s reassuring, if confused, face. “The logs were there to hold you down. You were always stronger than you think.”

She gives me another squeeze, then limps up the ladder rungs leading to the manhole cover. My passport juts from her back pocket. We agree we can’t both be seen emerging when it’s not yet dark. At the top of the rungs, she pushes, grunts against the cast iron, but it won’t budge. Panic squeezes my heart, and I climb up beside her. We push together. After her two weeks of hiding from Seb and my exhaustion, it takes intense effort, but we manage to lift then push it to the side. She kisses my cheek, an arm slung around my neck. “Thank you, Shayna.”

I pat her hand and feel the bones of her wrist. “See you soon.” Her feet disappear above into the red-streaked sky, then she’s gone.

Alone in the catacombs, I lean back against a rock wall for the agreed-upon five minutes to give her a proper head start. I wait for the pummeling fear to surge, to take my breath and clench my stomach. But it doesn’t. The most frightening thing I could ever experience has already occurred—and the most euphoric. Even if I’m not certain what I would have done, I’m grounded in the knowledge that Angela did what she had to. She did it for us. And we’ll choose each other from now on.