“Of course,” Dad says without hesitation. He kisses me on the top of the head. “And I believe in you, Cora. I believe in you.”

Thirty-Six

Quinn

Dear Parker,

It didn’t work.

I don’t know why I’m still writing you. You’re never going to read these letters, are you?

You’re never going to know how furious I am at you.

You’re never going to know how much I hate you.

You’re never going to know how much I loved you.

You’re never going to know.

Your sister,

Quinn

I haven’t come out of my room since I got home. Cupcake’s stayed by my side almost the whole time. That’s one nice thing about cats—they understand the idea that you can want to be alone, but not actually alone.

This is something Mom doesn’t get. She knocks on my door every once in a while, coming in with trays of food that I don’t touch. I listen when she tells me that Cora’s dad called from the hospital with the news that Cora is going to be okay, but I don’t say anything.

Cora isn’t going to be okay. How do they not get that?

It’s not okay. It’s not okay at all.

I was supposed to make it okay, and I didn’t.

So when Mom comes into my room again, I’m prepared for a tray filled with mini cheese quiches and some meaningless optimistic comment that I know she doesn’t even believe, but instead she hovers in the doorway, staring hard at me, not saying a thing.

I keep scratching the space between Cupcake’s ears, listening to her purr, and thinking about how I wish I could make a sound like that. A sound that said, Don’t leave, don’t leave, please don’t leave.

“Why were you in the woods?” Mom asks. Her voice is shy.

Cupcake’s fur is soft between my fingers. I don’t answer Mom, and before I know it, Dad’s also in my room. They’re both standing near the door like we’re playing that game we used to play when I was little—hot lava—where we avoid the molten center of the carpet. I wish I was little again. When the imaginary lava was on the carpet and not inside of me.

“Did you ask her?” Dad says to Mom like I’m invisible.

“She’s not saying anything,” Mom whispers in a way that lets me know that she knows that I can hear.

I still don’t say a word.

“Q,” Dad says. His voice has none of Mom’s uncertainty. “What were you doing with Cora in the woods?”

I shrug. “She’s my friend.” I refuse to use the word was instead of is, even though was is probably more accurate. My eyes drop to my paisley bedspread that Mom picked out when I was ten. It’s pretty and I’ve always liked it, but it’s starting to feel all wrong. Like I’m no longer the type of person who should have a paisley bedspread. I don’t know who that type of person is exactly, but I’m pretty sure she isn’t the sister of Parker McCauley.