Plus, the rain impairs my vision. I can only see a few inches in front of my face.

I run faster and try not to think about the mud that’s coating my sneakers and climbing up my ankles. I wipe the raindrops away from my eyes.

In the dark, it’s hard to figure out where I am. All the trees have begun to look the same. It’s like I’m running in circles. There’s a loud boom of thunder. I jump.

I exhale. I shouldn’t be scared. This is what I’m here for. The thunder and the energy it generates. The vacuum. The exotic matter.

I can’t let myself get scared off.

When I was younger, I was really afraid of thunderstorms. Whenever we had a really bad storm, Mabel would let me crawl into her bed. She would hold me while the storm raged outside our window, gently rubbing my back. She’d always say, “Don’t worry. It’s just the sky putting on a show.”

Of course, when I got older, I learned what actually causes a thunderstorm. But right now, as I’m standing in the pouring rain, I whisper to myself, “It’s just the sky putting on a show.”

I hear her words—her voice—in my head. It’s like she’s here with me, and so I keep running.

Her voice is clearer than it’s been in months. Her rounded vowels and sharp consonants—she spoke with such a distinct rhythm. But recently, it’s been harder for me to remember exactly how she sounded. I’ll try to hear her but then I’ll recall something that I know isn’t her voice, but my own memory of it. It’s the worst thing when your memories turn into memories themselves. Becoming unreliable duplicates of the real thing.

But right now, it truly sounds like Mabel. She’s here with me.

“I’m coming!” I shout out into the rain. “I’m coming for you, Mabel.”

I run farther and farther into the woods. The rain pounds down. The sky is inky black, crackling with the occasional strike of lightning. I only realize I’ve reached the creek when I hear it—the water is racing so loudly that it sounds alive.

“Cora!” a voice screams.

It’s another voice I know. But it’s not my sister.

“Cora!” the voice screams again.

I cup my hand over my eyes, looking all around. I can make out a shadowy figure running toward me.

“Cora, stop!”

It’s Quinn.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here—I’m he-here for you.”

Rain drips down my face. I don’t have time for this. “I don’t want you here.”

“It’s not safe to be out here in the storm.” Quinn is closer now, but she’s still shouting. “We need to go home.”

“I don’t need safety advice from you. Where was this concern when your brother was playing with your dad’s guns?”

A crash of thunder shakes the forest. Quinn is quiet.

“That’s what I thought,” I say. I eye the creek. The water rushes with a loud roar.

“Core, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry about everything. About Parker—”