Gregor turns twelve.

Really, he turned last week. He turned twelve, and he wasn't there. He wasn't there to eat his cake or to celebrate. We'll make a cake when Gregor gets home, Dad had said. We'll get presents and we'll have a good time. Right, Lizzie?

He had said all this in between coughs as his hands shook.

Lizzie had wanted to say, What if he never gets home? What if he's sick like Mom, what if he's never coming back, what if he and Boots died down there and we'll be all alone?

She hadn't said it. She hadn't wanted to worry Dad.

Now Gregor is home. He's twelve now. It should be a big deal. Lizzie knows that. She knows that he knows that, too. She thinks, I don't want to be twelve. If turning twelve means getting more scars and smiling less, anyway. She already worries too much. Everyone says that. But if she worries so much already, how much does Gregor worry?

He's always been carrying so much weight. Lizzie knows that. She can barely remember a time when he didn't. He's the one who would check the cupboards and make food when Mom wasn't home back before Dad came back. He's the one who gets her from school every day— well, he was, before the Underland. He's the one who has to do all these little grown-up things.

Gregor is twelve now. He's older now — closer to being all grown up. That should be a big deal. But it isn't, really. Because he's already had to be a little grown-up for so long.