You didn’t do anything wrong the day of the earthquake. It wasn’t unusual for you to follow me around. You did it a lot, and you were just excited that day. That’s all. Just asking me questions. I’m your big brother, and I’ve wished every single day since that I was nice to you in return. Instead, you got on my nerves, and the one who should have been looking out for you let you down.

Telling you to go to the back of the line is the worst choice I’ve ever made in my life. I can’t undo it. I’m so sorry. I hate that I said that. I hate that, when the world started shaking, I couldn’t pull you out.

You were just a kid. A kid who deserved a long, happy life.

I hope Grandma Dempsey makes pie for you up there and that Granddad wraps you in his big hugs and throws a football with you. You liked throwing the football.

Mom and Dad are doing well. They talk about you often. No one could ever replace you, and you’re still at the center of our family. They had a sculpture made of a boy playing in a puddle. It stands near a playground in town and has a plaque next to it saying how much they love you.

The town of Misty River holds so many reminders of you. So does our neighborhood and our house, where they all still live. You impacted every one of us who knew you.

I’m not sure when I’ll join you, but I will one day.

When I get there, I hope your face is the first one I see.

Luke wrote and wrote and wrote.

The pages poured out of him. The words had been rumbling inside of him, it seemed, waiting to be said.

The following afternoon, a nurse poked her head into Finley’s room. “Mr. Dempsey?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“The doctor has decided that it’s time to bring her back to consciousness.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

People were speaking to her. Finley crimped her brow because the words were hard to understand. Vague and fuzzy.

No. Too difficult.

She rolled her head to the side and gave herself permission to return to her beach. When Luke was with her there, it was cozy. Peaceful.

“Everything’s fine.” Meadow. “You’re safe.”

“You’re doing great.” Bridget. “We can’t wait for you to come back to us.”

“Finley?” Her uncle. “We’re here.”

“We love you.” Aunt June.

“Can you open your eyes?” Luke. He had the best voice. It always sounded as if he needed to use it more in order to oil it.

She began to sink down, down, down again.

“Can you talk to us?” Luke’s question found her, caught her, and drew her forward. “Can you tell us how you’re feeling?”