A cruiser idles in the driveway, door hanging open like a waiting mouth. Two officers flank Georgia on the front steps, one holding her elbow with practiced ease, the other talking into a radio. She's wearing the silk robe she always wears on Sunday mornings, the deep burgundy one with the Chinese dragons embroidered on the sleeves.

She catches my eye through the windshield of the Uber I just stepped out of.

Even now—hands cuffed behind her back, hair mussed from a night she clearly didn't sleep through—she manages a small, knowing smile. Like she was expecting me. Like she always knew I'd show up.

The driver clears his throat.

The front door is open. Through it, I can see the living room in chaos—a tipped-over lamp, papers scattered across the floor, Austin crying somewhere deeper in the house. But standing on the porch, frozen mid-step like she's been turned to stone, is a girl with dark skin and wide eyes.

She's wearing an oversized hoodie and pajama shorts. Her hair is half-done, like she was in the middle of getting ready for bed when the world fell apart.

She watches the officers guide Georgia toward the cruiser. Then she watches me.

I meet Ginny's eyes.

They're exactly like mine.

I let the duffel bag slide off my shoulder and hit the porch with a soft thud.