She set her wineglass down and left the room. I heard the bathroom door close, so I didn’t think anything of it. Only when nearly twenty minutes passed did I start to wonder. I called out her name and got some muffled response in reply.

“June?” I said, tapping on the bathroom door.

“Are you ready?” Before I could answer, she pulled the door open and stood face-to-face with me, her eyes wild, her long, thick black hair gone—chopped into a poor attempt at a pixie cut.

She laughed a deep belly laugh at the shock all over my face, as though she’d done it for that alone. “What do you think?”

“Honestly? You look a bit like a Dickens street urchin.”

She glanced at herself in the mirror. “Oh my god. I totally do.” She looked back at me with horror, and then we both started laughing—the hysterical kind, with tears and snorts, the best kind, the kind I shared most with my sister.

The next day she went to a proper hair stylist and emerged looking even more stunning than she had with long hair. That’s June—impulsive, impervious to societal dictates, and oblivious to consequences. Sounds like a magical combination, but in truth, it meant she needed a lot of taking care of.

Impulsive—she makes lots of mistakes. Impervious—she can never understand why people are so bothered by those mistakes. Oblivious—she never, ever seems to learn from those mistakes. She’s also generous and caring, and she loved me deeper than anyone else in my life ever did, and so I put up with the roller coaster that is my sister.

June rolls over onto her other side, licking her dry lips and letting out a weak cough. “What are we doing here, June?” I ask, knowing there will be no answer.

“Avril Island.” June’s words are mumbled sleep talk, but there’s no denying what she said.

The vision of our family cottage is suddenly right there for me to see. A quick succession of memories flash by—swimming, running through the forest, jumping from high cliffs, board games, suntanning—a kaleidoscope of beautiful childhood summers. The brightness of those memories is suddenly eclipsed by a shadow of something. Another memory, I think, but it’s buried deep down in the darkness of my consciousness. Resting there like an ancient sea creature waiting for something to summon it, biding its time until it can devour me whole.

JUNE

There’s no gentle waking this morning. As soon as consciousness hits me, pretty much every sense protests. My head is pounding with pain; my skin is prickling, itchy with heat; there’s a horrible sickly sweet taste in my mouth—buried under my furry, sandpaper-dry tongue. The musty scent of whatever I’m lying on tops it all off, and my stomach tightens with the threat of vomit.