Or maybe you won’t fail, Joey mou. Imagine that. Allow yourself to entertain the idea that maybe everything in your life has prepared you for this. And remember, an artist delights herself first. She pleases herself, first. She has fun. She has great fun. Remember that, paidi mou, and fly.

Joey watched the waves ripple through the window. She knew what she had to do. She selected a pencil and walked to the ladder propped against the wall.

She began to climb.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Sarah

Florida
2019

Sarah was in the midst of a raging sea. She plunged again below the surface, the waves thrashing her as if she were an insignificant rope of kelp. She kicked her feet in a fight to the top that mustered every last ounce of her will, because Benjamin was there. Benjamin needed her, and this time she would save him.

She made it to air. Her ears emptied water and heard, “Sarah!” It was unmistakably her brother’s shriek. “Sarah!”

Sarah swam in the direction of his voice, but at every stroke, the ocean slammed her back. Oh no, you don’t. Who do you think is in charge here? Our waves need to move, and you are standing in our way.

“Sarah!”

She was choking on the salt, or maybe her own tears. Why was Benjamin swimming in the dark? She had to get to him! She could make him out now, head bobbing in white froth—his translucent skin, his lively blue eyes.

Suddenly, he stopped moving. He met Sarah’s eyes. He didn’t smile—just blew her a little kiss. Then in an instant, the entire ocean stopped. Halted. Stilled. It was all a pool of nothing, and Benjamin was gone.

Sarah sprang up in bed. Her mouth grappled for air. And as the air hit her lungs, she felt that dormant swell of pain—like she was stealing a breath that belonged to her baby brother.

My dear Milos, It is the middle of the night and I cannot sleep. So much is plaguing me, I almost can’t bear it. And perhaps worst of all—I am writing to thin air. I am writing my deepest feelings to be returned only by little faces and hearts. It isn’t enough, Milos! I want to hear from you. I want you to find someone who can type English to me. Someone you trust to bare your own deep feelings to transcribe them. I want more than a little house with a shrub next to it, Milos. That was trite, as far as those little things you send me go.

I could use a hug, Milos. A very long hug. I haven’t been hugged tightly, long, so you can hear the other person’s heartbeat, in—oh, Milos, it’s been a lifetime. You want to know a sad secret? Sometimes I get a massage just to feel a hand on my skin that is not my own.