Next morning, Daria heard a commotion in the garage indicating that at least her father was home. She got up from her spot under the window to open the access door.

Scratching lightly at her thigh Daria threw open the door and jumped back in surprise.

"Gah," She said into the face of the tall girl standing on the top step of the short stair set up to the kitchen level.

The girl startled but recovered. "Gah, yourself. How about 'Hi sis' for starters?"

"Braje, Braje," Daria heard her mother call from the car. "Let me talk to Daria first, please sweetie."

"Braje?" Daria stepped back to allow the smiling girl to enter the kitchen. "What's a 'Braje'? I think the girl in my house is one. 'Sis'?!"

The stranger stopped in the middle of the kitchen, dropped a full duffel bag and turned towards Helen coming in the access door.

"Sure Aunt Helen, I mean, uh, Mom, but I need to explain to her too."

The smile disappeared as Braje dropped her eyes to the floor.

"Daria, I am your sister. There I said it. I'm your older sister and Daria-."

Sobs now. Braje shook and Daria saw tears form faster than Stacy Rowe's waterworks caught in some imagined fashion faux pas.

Daria's scar burned; it jerked her out of her bewilderment. She knew, more than she knew she remembered. From fifteen years before as though it happened to her yesterday Daria remembered. A memory as vivid as her hand in Joaquin's but dark and disturbing and so real and bright in its absolute assurance.

"You! I remember. I was so tiny but I remember." Daria wanted to choke back her words but they came out. "You, Braje or whatever. You, you cut me. You, yes my sister, wanted to cut me. You broke a bottle and slashed open my vein."

Daria barely heard Braje wail, collapse and bang the floor. Daria did not dare run for the downstairs powder room. She pulled a small lined garage can from under the kitchen sink and vomited.