I close the laptop with a quiet click. “Yes. A few.”

Sophie closes the door behind her, sitting in the chair tucked against the wall. She unbuttons her coat and dusts flakes of wet snow off her beanie. She keeps her eyes firmly on her knees. She could be avoiding me because of the sex-sec mishap or because my eyes still feel so hungry for her. We’ve been orbiting around each other for the past few days, satellites that absolutely must communicate but can under no circumstances intersect.

She’s flushed. Frenetic energy rolls off her in waves. I resist the urge to feel her forehead for a temperature. After rearranging herself in the chair, feet down, then one leg up, then cross-legged, she finally stills.

“Are you done?” I ask.

She nods.

She looks like she might crack open with the lightest tap. I want to wrap her up, protect her from sharp edges and hard surfaces.

“What’s up?”

“There’s a good chance we’re going to be chosen for Cook for Camilla,” she says.

The fireworks and whizz-bangs going off in my brain are muted by her tepid reaction. Her mouth smiles but her voice shakes.

Holy crap. We’re doing this. It’s happening.

“That’s great. Right?”

“Yeah.” She nods fast, like she’s trying to convince us both.

“Are you sure?” I’m excited. I want to jump around, pull her up with me, and scream.

She looks like she might laugh or throw up.

She breathes deeply and finally meets my eyes. “Yes. I’m sure. Just...preparing.”

My brother was supposed to work for a family friend the summer after we graduated. But then Mom got sick—sicker than she already was—and he decided to stay home to take care of her. Sometimes I wonder if when we were floating around in all that amniotic fluid as fetuses, his umbilical cord got the entire supply of compassion and I got none. It’s not that I’m not compassionate, that I don’t care. I feel things strongly, especially for the people I love. But I also don’t know how to tap into it. When people cry, I pat them on the shoulder and get the fuck out. When they’re scared or sad or nervous, I fight the thing that’s troubling them, and I’ve been informed that sometimes that’s not what they need in that moment. They need compassion, a soft place to fall, not an angry girl with brass knuckles for emotions.

Wes gave his whole life over to our Mom. I think he thought if he scrubbed her puke hard enough, if he scheduled her appointments efficiently enough, if he loved her with everything, he’d keep her alive.

I couldn’t do what my brother did. But I took care of all the bills. I swear Wes thought the lights stayed on because the electricity company took pity on us. I made the calls to insurance companies and had groceries delivered. In other words, I take my instinct to fight and make it easier for other people to do their jobs. To be compassionate.