Aidy tugged again on Harrison’s sleeve, and he leaned over to kiss her forehead. When she swatted him away, he looked around, holding his chin high to survey for trouble. His focused stare caught the attention of the Campbell twins, who turned their puzzle-piece bodies around to see if they fit together when inverted.

If there was ever a more complementary pair than Aidy and Harrison, it was Bigs and Teeny Campbell, born two minutes and fourteen seconds apart, which seemed to be the longest stretch they ever spent away from each other. Teeny never let us forget that she was actually the larger one at birth. Born first, with dark brown skin, a full head of pitch-black hair, and a wail that made their mother cry tears of joy and their father high-five the nurses. It was such a famous story in the Campbell household, we all knew to chime in with the line, “When Teniyah Campbell spoke, the world listened,” right before the part about Bigs arriving so small and silent they didn’t let his parents hold him, worried something was terribly wrong. It turned out that he was fine. He knew, even at birth, that his sister was the one meant to do the talking for both of them.

All four of them caught sight of Ruby, Nick, and me in the crowd. The seven of us were the remaining kids of Albany Lane. Oldest versus youngest on either side of the tent, locked in a battle of stares.

If only they could see my upper hand. I had Marley.

I always had Marley.

“We should sit,” Ruby said, daring to wave at the older kids. She led us over to a table near the DJ, where sound swallowed all possibility of conversation. A brilliant move on her part. It was a silent crusade we’d embarked upon. Discussion would only shatter the illusion that we’d meant it to be this way all along.

Nick tried to loosen his grip on my palm. I squeezed tighter.

The lights in the tent flickered.

Almost show time.

It’s hard to say what purpose Marley’s memorial served outside of fund-raising for Cadence’s police department. Certainly not that of healing for those most affected by her death. Once a year, Officer Bricket, who had retired, had to get out the shaving razor and make himself presentable enough to walk up on stage and deal with the fact that he was out of town when his daughter was killed with his gun. Ms. DeVeau, formerly Mrs. Bricket, had to make a production out of finding a seat as far from her ex-husband as possible. If ever the two came close to one another, someone swooped in and redistributed the crowd.