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Then there’s the email I’ve deleted every time it pops up in my inbox—once a year, without fail.

An invitation from The Association, the secretive, powerful organization purported to rule governments, control large corporations, and has always wanted my family to join its ranks.

But the price is high—a violent crime of their choice as an initiation.

It’s an organization where if you join, doors would open, power unheard of would be yours, but you couldn’t walk out alive. And I should know, because of what they did to Taylor, my youngest half sister, all those years ago.

But we Andersons live with honor.

I delete the message without reading it.

A new email pops up. One from Angela, my pen pal from Letters of Hope, a program from Manhattan Memorial I volunteer my time with. I founded it in hopes someday Lexy will be one of those patients, waking up from a coma or recovering from a long-term stay, and in need of an anonymous listening ear as she reintegrates into society.

It’s a sign. Good karma or mojo, as Lexy would call it.

She’s awake.My flurried heartbeats riot, the roaring pulse almost louder than the whirring of the helicopter propeller.

Chaotic thoughts fling themselves inside my mind as I read Angela’s email.

My first day at work was a success. Thanks for your support last year. I couldn’t do this without you. Now, instead of feeling sorry for myself, I’m actually moving on with my life.

I wish you well in the future,

Angela

Warmth infuses me, the happy goodbye email made even more beautiful by the news of Lexy waiting for me in the hospital room.

Ten minutes later, I’m darting down the corridors of the long-term care unit at the hospital. The place, usually so quiet youcan hear a pin drop, is abuzz with frenetic energy, much like the thrill teeming inside me. Doctors and nurses chatter on, smiles brimming on their faces.

It’s unheard of—someone waking up from a coma after almost a decade. The statistics are abysmal. Nonexistent. It’s a miracle. I think back to the wish I made in the jet.

A miracle.

All these years of waiting, of closing myself off from the world, burying myself in work and pretending everything is fine, that my heart doesn’t have a gaping hole in it.

I don’t need to pretend anymore.

She’ll be back at my side, and my life can finally restart. The hole inside me will heal. We’ll find more things to add to her bucket list. I can learn to open myself to someone else again.

I won’t be lonely anymore.

And at last, I’ll finally get her answer—the one I’ve waited to hear for eight long years.

But then, a sudden chill freezes my lungs. I skid to a stop in the middle of the hallway.

What if I can’t change back to the man she once knew? What if I’m incapable of loving her the way she deserves because my heart is damaged beyond repair?

What if she can’t forgive you? If only you’d taught her to swim back then, maybe we wouldn’t have lost eight years.

The floor swirls from the sudden rush of blood curdling fear.

I can’t think this way. I’m going out of my mind.

Shoving the illogical thoughts away, I burst into her room. I barely notice the small crowd gathered there. Charles Vaughn, Liam and Lexy’s oldest brother, sits by Lexy’s bedside. Taylor, who’s not only my sister but also Charles’s girlfriend, appears shell-shocked. Liam hovers by the bed, his eyes brimming with tears.

I don’t acknowledge them.

My attention rivets on the dazzling redhead propped up against the bed board. The beautiful face I’m used to seeing—pale, still, her eyes closed—is now teeming with life.