I pull the letter out. With everything that happened, I forgot to destroy it. Now I pull it out of the envelope with shaking hands.
I look across the bed at Leif’s parents. They’ve leaned in on each other, their eyes closed.
My eyes blur as I read it.
I’ve made a life out of missing you.
I reach up to the bed and take Leif’s hand, squeezing it hard as if that might remind him he has to wake up. “I refuse to be okay with only missing you.”
I clear my throat, lean forward, and in a low voice, read the ending part of the letter next to Leif’s ear.
I look up at the space between the stars, and I make one wish. That wish is that you’ll wish for me. That you’ll tell me I’m more important to you than the moon and stars and all your dreams. Isn’t that selfish?
Wake up, Leif. Please wake up.
I remember that conversation we had years ago, on the roof of the Rolling Hills. Are we playing out my fear?
Wake up, Leif. Tell me we’re not doomed.
Tell me what you see out there, Leif. Tell me if you can see between the stars.
Be safe so I can see you next Christmas.
And wish for me.
Leif doesn’t move, of course. So I stick the letter back in the book and set it down on the bed next to him. I kiss his forehead. I graze my finger over the little clover at his throat. Then I lie my head down on the bed and close my eyes.
CHAPTER 22
Leif
The first thing you’ll notice about space, they told me, is the darkness.
They said it like a warning. But it’s not a terrifying darkness, I thought as I beheld it for the first time. It’s not confining, and doesn’t crush you. They forgot to mention that.
It’s just as infinite as I always knew it would be.
So first, darkness. Then, the world comes into focus around me. There are my parents, their faces slack in sleep, their hands clinging to each other, their chairs angled toward me. Even in my confused, barely there state, my heart clenches at the sight of them, at the pain of seeing me here. I suddenly remember that time I was sick as a kid. That desperate expression on their faces. The soft pleading in my father’s eyes.
How could I have forgotten?
Then the pain comes in. It hits me all at once, all over my body, in all my bones.
I wiggle my toes, because that’s what they say to do right, to see if you can move? The blanket shifts at the end of thebed. Relief washes over me. I wiggle my hands next, but it’s not seeing them that has me freezing, forgetting my pain.
It’s the softness shifting through the fingers of my hand. My fingers are entangled in hair—hair that cascades from the face of an angel, asleep as she leans onto the bed.
Noelle.
In front of her is a book I recognize. But my eyes go to the items spilling out of it. There’s an envelope with my name on it. And under that, a photo.
I try to reach for the letter, but my other hand lifts only an inch before dropping. I see why—it’s got a cast on it, from elbow to hand.
Movement flickers in the corner of my vision. There’s a person there. An older woman with salt and pepper hair in a plain uniform, a broom in her hand. Her name tag readsJojo.
Her mouth opens when she sees me, a gasp on her lips. “You’re awake!” She turns toward the door, presumably to call for help.
“No!” I say. The word is a croak. “No,” I try again. It’s a little clearer. “Please. Not yet.”
