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The magic of being a younger sister: that every second of Sam’s life, since before she drew her first breath, before she swam inside her mother, and before a stranger’s seed ever met the egg that would divide into her growing self, Elena was there. Always. Always Elena. Nothing matched an older sibling’s constancy; their mother, Sam knew even before the diagnosis, would die, because parents died before children did, that was the way of the world, and the planet would heat and transform over the years, and pandemics would rip through humanity, but Elena and Sam would keep going, they were permanent. Elena had been beside Sam since before birth and would be there until everything was done. If they fought, if they lied, if Elena told Sam to move out—if Elena yelled insults in a parking lot and Sam ordered their neighbor to fire a bullet—if they went to funerals, or had love affairs, or one got the other in trouble with the sheriff and racked up fines, still, they were sisters, forever, no matter. They were sisters and they would last past the end of time.

Sam knew that. Then the bear. It closed its jaws over Elena’s face. Sam saw her sister go.