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Sam woke that night to her sister in her bedroom. The space was black. It had to be before three-thirty—Sam’s alarm hadn’t yet gone off—what time was it?—late, late. Elena’s hand gripped her shoulder, and her face was close, her breath warm. Her hair caught the barest light from the window so loose strands of it looked white as stars.

“Sammy,” Elena whispered. And Sam knew. There could be no other reason for this. “You need to wake up. Mom’s gone.”