Quinn smiles for the first time all day. “No problem. Follow me.”

She effortlessly hops up onto one of the lower branches. Once she’s hoisted herself farther up, she bends down and stretches out her hand. “Here.”

I take her hand and follow her up.

Twenty-Eight

Quinn

Dear Parker,

You know how in comic book movies, they always give the villain this elaborate backstory? I mean, you can see that the Joker is going to end up a bad guy from like a million miles away. It’s so obvious.

But I don’t think that’s how it is in real life.

I wish I would have seen it.

Or maybe the problem is that I did see it, but I didn’t understand.

I understand now. And I really hope it’s not too late.

Your sister,

Quinn

Cora and I sit back-to-back, our shoulders slowly rising with each shallow breath. I wonder how many times Cora and I have sat like this over the course of our lives. One hundred? Two hundred? I don’t know. I can’t help thinking that this might be the last time.

A few weeks ago, Mrs. Euclid told our class that art is as much about remembering as it is about seeing. I mentally draw us like this so I can remember it, so I can have this memory forever.

“Ready?” Cora asks. “Let’s start.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. The science classroom, I tell my brain. I hold the image. The lab tables and their steel sinks. I even get as far as imagining Parker’s dark boots on the tiled classroom floor, but then I’m back in the upstairs hallway of my house, following him into my parents’ room.

I try to reach out for my brother’s shoulder, but my hand slides right through his shoulder blade.

He’s not real.

None of this is real.

My eyes snap open and I can’t concentrate any longer. But Cora’s breathing is still steady. I know she’s doing the best she can to picture that morning. She’s trying.

It’s me. I’m the problem.

I look up. The sky overhead is a deep-blue color—the type of sky you see drawn with thick acrylic paints, all texture and swirls. The sun is slipping down to the ground, leaving a trail of eggy light. All of it looks close enough to touch. I reach my hand out but feel only air. Another illusion.

“It didn’t work,” Cora whispers. “We’re still here.”

I have to tell her. I know that I do, but I also don’t know how I possibly can.

“Core—” I start.

“What?” She shuffles on the branch, flipping herself around. I do the same.

“What do you think we’re missing?” she asks. “I need to check something in my notebook.”

“Core—” I try again, but she’s already crawling down. I’m impressed with how quickly she’s hopping from branch to branch. She remembers the path down from before.

When she’s almost to the forest ground, she turns to look up at me. “Are you coming?”