Then my sister Tracy dragged me back into the world.
“It’s a youth art exhibition,” she said, pressing a plastic cup of red wine into my hand. “Local teenagers. Free admission. Low pressure.”
“Low pressure,” I repeated.
“Yes. And please, Tanya, try to look at something besides the exit.”
“I am looking.”
“You’re glaring at a sculpture.”
“It looks like a melted toaster.”
She almost smiled.
That was the most we had managed in months.
I hadn’t heard Lily’s laugh in three years and two months. I knew the exact time because grief had made me strange with numbers. I counted days. Weeks. Missed birthdays. Missed school years. The age she should have been.
