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Her smile’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. “That actually wasn’t so bad. Being stabbed and thrown off that train was way worse.”

And now I’m crying again. My sister’s life has been so horrific that having metal screws torn from her leg and blasted into the world—that risking her ability to walk for yet another time—isn’t that bad. “Oh, Mirdza.”

She shakes her head. “Stop. It’s fine. I mean it.” Because even beyond all the misery and the suffering, the hope on her face shines like a star. In my desperation about her pain, for a moment I forgot why we’re doing this. It all comes down to this moment, really.

Can Alexei heal the shattered bones?

The bones that have been through so much. The original trauma. Regrowth. Breaking again. Scraping and pinning and screwing and grafts. Remodeling over and over. The cartilage and the tendons and the ligaments that have tried to hold this train wreck together must be pretty sore and tired as well.

That’s the thing about our bodies.

They’re amazing.

They’re miraculous.

But when one small piece breaks, the rest of our body has to compensate, and it causes unimaginable wear and tear and collateral damage. I can’t even imagine what it’s been like for my sister, compensating for a paper-mâché leg. And now I may have made it all worse by making her gamble on this repair.

As guilty as I felt before, how will I feel if she’s in a wheelchair from today forward?

“I’m ready.” Mirdza’s smiling.

If there was any doubt in my mind that my sister was a saint, it’s gone. She has so much hope, so much light, and so much peace in the face of all this horror.

Please, please God, help this to fix her.

Is it crazy that someone selfish like me is praying? Yes. Is it bonkers that I’m asking for God’s help with a magical healing? Also, yes.

But here we are.

Alexei’s hands extend over my sister’s leg, and I watch for something, anything, that will show me what he’s doing. Light. Sparks. An electric feeling. Anything.

But nothing happens.

Until Mirdza gasps.

Her body bows and her hands tighten on mine, and she stays that way— rigid, taut, miserable—for one heartbeat. Then another. For a dozen more. And then she finally collapses against the blood-stained comforter and groans.

“What?” I look frantically from Mirdza to Alexei and back again. “What happened?”

Alexei swallows.

Mirdza inhales and then struggles into a seated position.

“I think it worked,” Alexei says. “The bone regrew.”

Mirdza smiles. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.” She doesn’t even seem to notice the blood—her blood—that’s smeared all over everything. She pivots on the bed until her legs swing over the side of the bed, and then. . .

She stands.

The smile that spreads across her face is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

19

I suggested Mr. Burger because I thought it would shock Alexei. I thought it would show everyone how fundamentally different we are. There is no way on earth that he’s going to like the burger joint.

His meals were made by a team of servants, for heaven’s sake. He’s accustomed to sitting in dining halls with linen tablecloths and fine China. His family had multiple courses and dinners attended by the elite of society.

He’s not going to like a messy, smooshed-up burger. I’m actually excited to see it happen, but I can’t focus. I’m too distracted.