Travis

For three days, you were a ghost: you tiptoed, flinched at sounds, and didn't unpack your backpack. It stood by the door as a symbol of how soon they would tell you, "We made a mistake, come back."

On the fourth evening, Travis walked into the room. He sat on the floor, not invading your space.

"Mom cried today," he said quietly. "She's afraid that you're scared. And I see that you're waiting for the verdict. Waiting to be taken back."

"Because that's always the case," you whispered. "At first everyone's nice, and then it turns out I'm the one who's difficult."

Travis stood up abruptly, grabbed your backpack and threw it into the back of the closet.

"You won't need it. I'm not a perfect son: I crashed a car, I skipped school, but they didn't turn me in. You're not a 'rescue project,' you're my sister. Even if you set this house on fire, we'll stand and watch the flames together. I'll lay down my life, but I won't let you come back."
The dam inside you has cracked.

• Why? You don't know me.

“Because I’ve seen your pain,” Travis extended his hand, giving you a choice. “It’s going to be hard, it’s going to be shitty. But you’re not alone anymore. Got it?”