It’s raining.
The kind of rain that comes down so heavy it sounds like the shower’s running, even when you’ve turned it off.
I became a firefighter because I wanted to save people.
But I should have been more specific. I should have named names.
The kind of rain that makes you think of dams and flash floods, arks.
As we got older, I didn’t seem to exist, except in relation to her.
Everyone thinks about dying. No.
Everyone thinks about her dying.
The kind of rain that tells you to crawl back into bed, where the sheets haven’t lost your body heat, pretend that the clock is five minutes earlier than it really is. “You’re right, Dr. Neaux- parents need to be parents,” I say. “But sometimes that isn’t good enough.”
I stare at Kate through the protective glass wall. Gamma rays, leukemia, parenthood.
It is the things you cannot see coming that are strong enough to kill you.
“It’s a Solomon’s choice, Your Honor. But you’re not asking me to split a baby in half. You’re asking me to split a family.”
Did I tell Kate I loved her before I put her to bed last night? I cannot remember. I cannot remember at all.
“But I love her,” I say because that is the reason enough.
In the end, though, I did not kill my sister. She did it all on her own.
Or at least this is what I tell myself.
Ask any kid who’s made it past fourth grade and they can tell you: water never stops moving.
Rain falls, and runs down a mountain into a river.
The river finds its way to the ocean.
It evaporates, like a soul, into the clouds.
And then, like everything else, it starts all over again.
“Maybe,” Seven said, “but neither do you.”