If you listen to any one song for this entire story, let it be this one. It came out as I was shaping the character arcs/plot for this story, and it's been influential for me in planning Claire's journey.

Is me crying while writing a good indication of whether you all as readers need tissues? If so, get them ready—and maybe check those story description tags before you read these next several chapters.

I lost the girl I was over a winter. I tried to cry for it; I could not cry for it. Sank down to search the bottom of the river. I tried to dive for it; I could not dive for it. – "My Ego Dies at the End" by Jensen McRae

Claire

For Christmas, Quil and I each buy two tickets to see his favorite band, Dashboard Confessional. It was funny when it happened, both of us insisting we had to exchange gifts early but not understanding why it was so important for the other.

And when we ripped our respective envelopes, we'd looked up in shock and burst into laughter. That led to a passionate kiss because we know each other so well, which led to Quil's hands getting pretty creative with the limited space in my jeans.

But after we'd fixed my problem, we still had the problem of having two tickets too many.

Which is how Quil and I wound up on our first double date with Embry and Bethany Call, three days before Christmas.

The three-hour drive was filled with family-style bickering about where to eat before the show and a hell of a lot of early-2000's alt rock.

Embry and Quil were up front, talking about pack schedules for the holiday. After Sadie's adoption was finalized a few months ago, he slotted back into place as Beta of Jacob's pack. He probably could have stayed in retirement, but he hasn't had the opportunity yet to be a wolf brother with his actual brother, and I can tell they're both looking forward to it.

Bethany was dozing next to me, but after a hard brake for which Quil apologized profusely, she sat up with a huff of finality. And maybe kicked his seat. I saw nothing.

"How are Kim and the baby?" I asked over a too-shrill guitar solo. "You've been staying with her, right?"

Kim and Jared have a new-new-newborn at home: Miles Jared Cameron is only four days old. He's not the first pack baby, but there's such a big gap between him and Lucas—three years—that it sort of feels like he is. There's a new generation coming right behind Miles, with Katie Clearwater and Nessie Black both due in early March. (Quil was devastated to find out he'd been wrong about the next Pack baby; he lost about seventy bucks.)

Bethany smiled through a yawn, smoothing a few tendrils of red hair from her forehead. "Yeah. Kim's good. Miles is good. Jared's losing it a little," she said with a grin. "He just wants to be everything for all of them, which is hard to do on two hours of sleep a night."

We talked about the baby some more, what they got Sadie for Christmas. Where I've applied to college—Quil won that argument, to no one's surprise. I've been accepted to the community college in Port Angeles, which also isn't a surprise. But I also have thick envelopes from the state school in Pullman and a private university in Seattle. I don't remember applying for that one, but it's possible I did.

It's also possible Quil slipped that one in the stack and forged my signature.

The concert was good, Quil singing along to every single song with his beer held high over our heads. But the conversation with friends was better. I laughed and sang, and for a whole six hours, no one brought up my mom or cancer or anything sad at all.

I'm surprised to see light filtering in through Callie's door when I tiptoe upstairs. It's almost four in the morning. We would have been home ten minutes sooner if Embry and Quil hadn't insisted on swinging through the Taco Bell drive-thru, a "delicacy we don't have back home."

I knock on Callie's door twice, and open it when she calls out from inside.

She's nestled in her bed, her laptop open and paused on some show about werewolves. The irony is what makes her like it so much.

"How was the show?" she says, her already-soft voice quieter at this time of night. Her bedroom is directly above Mom and Dad's. I'm surprised she wasn't wearing headphones. I get the distinct feeling that, for some reason, she was waiting up for me.

I smile, thinking about how happy Quil was to see his favorite band. "It was really good. I had a fun time."

"That's good," she says, her eyes flicking back to her screen before finding mine again.

I chew the corner of my bottom lip. "Everything okay?"

She rubs the sleep from her eyes, sitting up a little straighter. Her tie-dye comforter falls away from her chest, and although I'm expecting nudity—she does sleep naked, after all—I see a worn t-shirt.

It furrows my brow further, and my butt hits the edge of her bed. "Were you waiting up for me or something?"

"Sort of, it's—we can just talk in the morning," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "You had a long day."

I pull my feet further onto the bed. "I won't be able to sleep if I know something's bothering you."

"Have you thought any more about getting tested for that gene thing?" she blurts. "I think we should do it soon."

I'm suddenly very tired. I try to remember what time I woke up this morning—yesterday morning? I think it was around eight. No wonder.

"I thought I told you," I say slowly, partially from fatigue and partially from a place of if-I-say-it-slow-enough-you-won't-get-pissed-off, "that I don't want to do that."

Callie grinds her teeth, and I can tell just by the sound she's not wearing her retainer. Mom would be pissed if she knew. If she had excess energy. "I want to, though."

"Okay, so do it. You don't need my permission." My tone is a tad too sharp, and I mentally scold myself. Whoever decided it was okay to have passionate conversations at whisper-level has clearly never had a sister.

"But—" her chin wobbles. Oh no— "it's like a fifty-fifty shot."

I don't know a lot about genetics aside from the two-week lesson we had on it in biology. But I know this: "Just because yours is positive or negative doesn't mean mine will be the opposite. The odds are independent."

"That's sort of my point, though," she says, staring at her lap as she fiddles with her blanket. Her chin quakes harder. "Why I think we both need to do it. And then we can make a decision together..." She ends her thought there, but I hear the rest as if she'd finished it. …Like we always have. Because that's what sisters do.

It's my fatigue, surely, that speaks next. Because I know it's not me who snaps at my baby sister.

"Why is this such a big deal for you? What are you going to do with that information, Callie? Would you have surgery? Take medication you might not even need for the rest of your life?"

She shrugs, her eyes finally welling, and I feel guilty, but not guilty enough to stop.

"Do you think us knowing will save Mom?" I press, too loud. My throat is hoarse from the effort to drop my volume. "That just because we get some tests done, hers are magically undone?"

Callie presses the pads of her fingers into her eyes, her shoulders hunching. "I—just—want—to," she sobs.

A piece of my heart cracks off. "I don't want to live the rest of my life with that knowledge. My percentage chances of dying? I can't do that. I'd be too scared to live."

"It will happen anyway," she cries through her hands. "At least with knowing, you'll know."

"I'm scared," I say, and it feels like my tongue is covered in glass from how raw my mouth feels, how sharp my words come out. "Either way, it will happen. But if I know, if I do medicine or start getting mammograms at eighteen, or, I don't know, chop them off?" I wince. "I'll be scared. That every time I get a cold it's a sign of something else. I'd rather just live."

"You don't think I'm scared?" Callie says, sniffling. She flips up the bottom of her shirt to dry her eyes and wipe her nose, and I get effectively flashed. "But I'd rather be prepared. I would hate for Mom to go through all of this for nothing."

My jaw drops, silently scoffing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"She's giving us a chance she didn't have, and the fact that you're refusing to take it is disrespectful."

And there it is. The truth, like so many other things—nail polish, secrets—spills between us into the early morning hours.

This is the biggest fight we've ever had. It's funny how it's also the quietest. I wonder if, as we get older, we get better at saying the hard things in a soft voice, or if the hard things just become harder and bigger and find their way out no matter how much or little we scream.

"You can do it even if I don't, you know." I'm trying to backpedal to a space that's safer, more familiar, less jagged and rough and cliffside. "We're different people."

"Yeah," she says, flipping on her side, away from me. "I know. Goodnight, Claire."

I stand, not able to remember a time when she's dismissed me like this. When she's turned her back on me, ended a conversation in such a concrete way.

I don't like it.

"Claire," she says.

I hesitate in her doorframe. "Yeah, Sissy?"

She mashes the button on her laptop, and the soft sounds of werewolves fighting cuts the silence. "Make sure you shut my door all the way. You leave it cracked every time."

Lip trembling, I pad across the hall to my bedroom. I tug my jeans down but they're stubborn over my hips and thighs, the sweat from the concert having dried them to my body. And then when I get them to my ankles, I almost lose my balance, toppling over onto my mattress. It squeaks loudly, my headboard banging into the wall with my bounces. It sounds like sex.

I want Quil. I want him to wrap me up in his safety and his warm-smelling skin, hold me while I cry. The way he did the day we found out Mom was sick with something that wasn't yet named. Every day when I have needed him, he's been here.

My phone buzzes, still in the back pocket of my jeans. It's Quil, I just know it is. He'll tell me how amazing a time he had tonight, that he loves me, that he can't wait to see me, and could he sneak in my window? Just to sleep, he swears, and we'll both be so tired neither of us will try anything for a change.

Leaning over the side of the bed, my heart sinks when I read the message.

SISTER: if youre gonna have sex you need to be quieter. im trying to sleep

My eyes burn, and I squeeze them shut, letting the phone fall back to the floor. What does it matter if it loses battery? I can't ask Quil to come over now, not when Callie just called me out like that. And I can't burden my other friends with this.

Half the problem is I don't even know what this is.

We're in this together, Mom and Dad have said too many times to count.

Together doesn't feel as good as it used to.

Together feels an awful lot like alone.

The day I have to buy my mother adult diapers instead of tampons comes fifty years too soon.

The call comes from Quil, right after the final bell, like he'd been waiting to call me until this specific moment.

All of the symptoms you think of, Mom has. Fatigue—even getting to the living room is too hard for her some days. It's a team effort, one person under each of her arms, breaks to stop in the hallway and right before she sits down. Hair loss—what's left of her thick raven hair is now paper-thin and more dark gray than black. I swear sometimes, in the right light, I can see straight through it.

Her skin is dry and sallow and covered in bruises. Last week she sneezed once and the blood vessels in her eyes popped. Our house has slowly become a quarantine zone, wary of outside infections, and the visitors that do come take their temperature and wash their hands and keep a good distance. We'll probably start wearing masks around her soon.

She'll hate it.

She's been snappier, I know, but it's never been directed at any one person. Just her situation. I know she's miserable in this house, even filled with fluffy knitted blankets and her favorite music and the flowers Dad brings home from work every single payday, without fail. Anywhere can become a prison if you never get to leave. But she'd rather lay down than let her bad mood affect anyone else.

She sleeps a lot these days.

Mom complains of her feet and hands tingling, burning up even though her toes are cold. When someone tries to put socks on, her eyes water from the pain. She's lost so much weight her hugs are painful for both parties.

We don't hug much anymore.

And now, she's too weak to make it the fifteen steps to the bathroom. Quil sounds embarrassed to have to call at all, like he's asking for himself instead of my mother. He tells me the sheets are in the wash, and he has the window open to get the smell out, even though it's only February. I read between the lines and add incontinence to the list of my mother's ailments.

It's there, in the personal products aisle of the grocery with Callie waiting in the car because things still haven't gone back to normal after that night before Christmas, where I realize we didn't need tampons this month, because we still had some from the last.

When I get home, I find Quil, arms locked in front of him as he braces against the dryer.

"Quil?" I say, touching him between the shoulder blades.

He spins, and I only get a flash of watery, bloodshot eyes before he wraps me in his arms, tight enough to steal my breath.

"Sweetheart," he says, inhaling my hair. "I just need to hold you for a minute."

Hearts are so fragile, aren't they? And the thing is, everybody breaks for different things.