“Yeah, I know. So is my car. Now what?” Maybe they want me to follow them. It was a ridiculous thought, but Zadie was desperate enough to try anything. When she started her engine, the birds took off in one giant indigo cloud. “This is crazy,” she muttered as she threw the car into drive and took off after the flock.

The starlings lead Zadie away from town, toward the mountains, zigging and zagging across wooded roads, vanishing into the canopy only to burst forth moments later like a great winged beast. Even when she couldn’t see them, their constant chittering let her know they were nearby.

As she drove, Zadie began to second-guess her decision. “What am I doing?” she admonished herself. Here she was, chasing a flock of birds when her sister was still missing. If the old Zadie had been here, she would have splashed cold water on her face and told her to “get a grip.”

The sky is full of birds.

The premonition had to be important. Why else would the same words have followed her from Texas to the Pacific Coast? Finn had listened to her echoes and it had gotten them this far. Maybe it was Zadie who was supposed to finish it.

The flock disappeared once again into the trees; this time, they didn’t reemerge. Zadie pulled over to the side of the road, listening for their chatter, but didn’t hear a single squawk. The road was clear, so she made a U-turn and headed back in the direction from which she’d come.

Zadie drove up and down the quarter-mile stretch of road two more times before she saw it peeking through the trees: a weathered Victorian-style cottage with yellow gingerbreading, cathedral windows, and a Juliet balcony dripping with ivy. And covering the lawn, the sagging porch, and the steep slate gables were hundreds of starlings.

The driveway was so overgrown it was no wonder it had taken Zadie several passes to see it. As her car rumbled over the weeds and grasses, she felt a stab of fear in her gut. If she knocked on that door and her mom answered, what would she say? Which stage of grief would choose to speak on her behalf? Anger? Depression? Acceptance? Would she accept her mother as she is, or would she dredge up the past? Could they rebuild their relationship or—overwhelmed by the amount of work ahead of them—let the foundation sink and the walls crumble around them?

Worse yet, what if it wasn’t her mom who answered, but a stranger whose breakfast she’d rudely interrupted? She suspected the grief cycle would begin all over again, starting with denial. Mom is here. She has to be.