Chapter 1. Our story begins with a little girl. What do you think her name was?" Crap. Duh, I can't remember! I've got to get this right! "Um . . . I don't know. Do you remember her name?" He doesn't answer my question. Wait, what is he saying? He says, "You won't remember her name . . ." Oh God. "You won't remember her name, and . . . and that's okay, but I know her name. So . . . I promise you, I'll tell you her name . . . and then I'll tell you how it all happened. Okay?" I nod. "Okay." He looks out the window. "Her name was Hope." He's saying Hope? There's a girl named Hope? No way! I mean, I guess . . . but we're not related. There's no way she's related to us. "And, oh, she was so precious. Just as precious as a little girl could possibly be, and so perfect. Like you. Just like you." My ears prick up. I remember one morning in the beginning of the summer when I woke up to the smell of Dad's coffee. I'd heard him before I opened my eyes, the familiar sound of the grinder going, the beans dropping in. I remember the sound of his footsteps as he walked out of the kitchen and the smell of the first wave of coffee in the living room. I remember the sound of the wind through the pine trees, how my hair tickled my face. The grass that summer was still green and had tiny bits of dew still clinging to it, the air smelling crisp and fresh. I remember how, sometimes, Mom would call me to the window. She'd be standing at the sink looking out over the field, our backyard, and say, "That's the most amazing green ever. Look at it. Isn't it amazing?" And I would. But then, I couldn't remember how it happened. We had a house then, a beautiful white house. Dad had built it for us. Before we even went to live there he told us it was going to be a house where we could raise our family. That's why he was so happy with it. So we did. Mom got pregnant at fifteen, and then we did. That's what I remember. I don't remember the moment we lived in this house or what the place looked like. I remember being small, too little to remember it. That's when it was gone. "And then one day she went for a walk. She walked with her mother and her two little sisters, but she just felt like she wanted to walk on her own. And so she did." Okay, his voice sounds so real, like he is just talking, and it's a story I'm listening to. But I don't remember it, either. I know that is impossible. It doesn't matter, though. I let him talk. "And when she went outside, she walked to the road, a pretty two-lane street with all the trees, a little more than a block from their house, and she just started walking. And then, because she'd never done it before, because she was young and curious, because she wanted to know what it was like outside, she started running. And she was running just like you're running right now." My little toe has to wiggle just a little bit, and then my heel is tapping out some beat. "She ran and she ran, and then she stopped. And she just, for a moment, stood there looking at this huge gray sky, so expansive and yet so flat against the tops of those trees. And that's when she decided to climb up one of those trees." It feels like he's about to go on a tear. "Climb up one of those trees . . ." he continues, his voice a bit more of a whisper, "and see the world from above, and look out all the way to the water." I can hear him well enough. But I don't want to go there. I don't want him to get mad at me. "She just wanted to see the sky," he says. He's going to keep at me. So I go somewhere else. I'm trying to think about something to make him say she's not mine. So I go blank. I just think of how there are some men, some kind of men—I've never met one—who like girls who want to have sex, not love. Kind of how some men like being the one who wears the mask. The mask that says he loves me, the mask that says he'll show me the world. I wonder how many men have loved her. And then I'm feeling, like, sad. I look at the road as he tells me that when she reached the tree, she knew that she was in the middle of a forest. It was so big that she couldn't even see the end. She pulled herself up the closest one, and she was so scared. Scared to be out there, scared to be in this dark forest, this giant forest. Scared of these old trees. The trees were so huge, she remembers, and so rough, like they were fighting back. The first tree she climbed, he says, was big. When she sat up in it and looked around at the tops of the others around her, he says she could see where the forest started and stopped. "She was scared," he says, as if trying to convince me. "She was scared to be up there, so she climbed down. But there were some rocks to go over and she fell. She fell and fell." There was a sound of his body slamming the side of the car as he takes a wide turn. He slows down, so we're right on the shoulder and then he stops. He pulls over and parks the car. I feel so little. "I'm so sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry. I don't . . . I don't know what else to say. What she did was so wrong. I feel so . . . so . . ." What? "Unworthy," he continues. "I don't know. But I am so sorry. I did what I had to do. The police did that for me. I didn't do it, but I didn't fight it either. It was so . . . so . . ." "Horrible." He's staring straight ahead. He says, "It is." His voice, so filled with despair, makes my heart swell. But I'm still not sure. "Why?" I ask. "Why would she do that? Why would she do that to us?" His face falls. "I don't know. All I know is that she did it. I know that." I open my mouth. But I don't say anything. I can't. "She said it was a present for me, but it was only an apology. It was only to protect her. I don't know why she did it. I don't know why." His voice is barely a whisper now. He drives home then. When we get back to the house, I tell him, "She's my sister." He stops outside the door to the car and turns to me. "The one I was telling you about. The one who died. She's your sister." "What?" "That's why I was saying your name." I shake my head, but I don't say anything. I look at the trees. I'm scared. Dad goes inside. I don't know how long I just sit there by the road. But I do know I'm cold when I walk in the door. I'm scared. And I know he's going to say she's my sister and that it's true. It's not going to change anything. He's not going to be my father. And then there's one more thing that I know. That I won't let them get away with. "I was looking for you," he says to me. "All of those years ago, I was looking for you, and I found you." "How?" I ask. "A year after you disappeared, I went to the forest. I went with the police and the park rangers. I found some things. There was something I wanted to show you." "Why?" I'm fighting the tears. "Why couldn't you show me then?" "It was just for you to hear. It didn't matter what I said. I wanted you to hear it from me. I wanted you to hear what I know." He pauses, looking away. "I've got to go," he says, and walks back out the door. • • • It's just me and Lory again. The house is full. It feels good. Everyone has come to see me and talk to me. We've got a million little things we've done, and just been able to sit and talk, or sit