“Cora,” I say, her name catching in my throat. “Cora, I can’t lose you. Cora, come on.” I reach out to gently slap her cheek. She doesn’t move. “You’re my best friend, Cora. You’re my favorite person. I’ve never told you this, you—you—you—”

I don’t know how to quite say what I want to say. I picture us sitting together in the back of Grams’s station wagon on the way to preschool, Cora holding my hand because she knew I was nervous. Riding our bikes together down the street, me jumping off mine to help her stay steady, to keep her from falling. Sleepover after sleepover, our backs spine-to-spine as we talked and talked. Cora and me, Coraandme, always Cora.

She still doesn’t move. I scream and pull at her, grabbing everywhere and anywhere. My head goes underwater for a moment. I surface and gasp for air.

I tread to keep my place. The water roars all around us. It shoves at my sides, pushing and pushing at me, my feet slip, but I catch myself. I scream again—bellowing at the creek, at the thundering sky, at my brother, at the world.

I bend at my knees and channel every bit of strength I have, lunging toward Cora in an attempt to hoist her out of the creek.

It fails.

She’s lying facedown in the creek. I roll her over quickly. The current surges around us. Her body is so limp and water is dribbling out of her mouth. Water slaps against my face. I scream over and over again. My heart pounds so fast that I think it might jump out of my chest.

“Cora!” I scream again, grabbing both of her arms and dragging them through the water. We are smacked and bruised by the current, but this time, I make it to shore.

I fall down beside her, hardly able to catch my breath, my lungs hiccuping as they try to catch up with my heart. Pressing my head against Cora’s chest, I check for a pulse. Every part of my body tenses in anticipation. “Cora?” I whisper.

She doesn’t answer, but her inhales and exhales do. My eyes swell up with tears. I let out a loud sob.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “It’s going to be okay.”

I don’t know how it is, but I’m going to find a way.

We’re going to find a way. Cora and me. Coraandme.

Thirty-Five

Cora

When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is a blinking light. I don’t know where I am, and in my confusion, I whisper, “Mabel?”

A hand grabs mine. It is bigger than I remember my sister’s. The grip is firmer. But a warm feeling of hope runs through me. “Mabel,” I say again.

“Alhamdulillah,” the voice says. As my vision sharpens, I see my dad’s face. There is stubble on his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. He keeps squeezing my hand and bows his head over my body. “Cora. My Cora. You’re awake.”