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I feel close behind.

My spine aches from sitting in the same chair, my jaw hurts from clenching, and my entire personality has narrowed to one task: keep Maggie upright until we can get her out of here.

The officer slides the papers closer. “Given the evidence you’ve provided, we’re granting the emergency order immediately.”

Maggie doesn’t move.

My hand closes around hers again, because if I don’t touch her, I might burst into tears before she does, and that feels selfish. Also inconvenient. I have mascara on, and while waterproof cosmetics exist, I’ve always considered them a promise made by liars.

Maggie stares at the paperwork.

I stare at Maggie.

The emergency restraining order sits between us, covered in signatures and official language. It’s paper and ink. Procedure.

It’s also the first official barrier between my sister and the man who convinced her she’d never get free.

“You did it,” I tell her.

Her lips part as if she’s about to speak, but no words come.

That’s fine. I don’t need them.

She walked into the station. She opened the folder. She told the truth to a stranger while I sat beside her and tried very hard to look like a stable adult with no violent instincts.

The officer explains the next steps. Court dates. Follow up interviews. What happens if Tom contacts her. Who to call. What the order covers. What the order can’t do.

I listen hard, because Maggie has reached the stage of emotional exhaustion where she could probably be handed a feral raccoon and thank someone politely.

When the officer asks if we have questions, I ask three. Maybe four. Possibly seven. Maggie gives me a sideways look after the fifth, but I ignore it because one of us needs to retain information, and it clearly won’t be the woman currently blinking at a legal document like it’s a bomb that might explode in her face.

At last, Maggie signs the final page.

We leave the interview room together.

The second we step outside, Maggie starts crying.

Her body has apparently reviewed the day’s events and selected “complete emotional flooding” as the preferred exit strategy.

I wrap my arms around her before she can apologize, because I know my sister. She’ll try to make her trauma seem inconvenient if nobody stops her.

“I’m getting really tired of myself,” she mumbles into my shoulder.

“Tragic,” I say, holding her tighter. “You’re stuck with you.”

A laugh breaks through her tears. “Terrible news.”

“Devastating. I’ve been managing your nonsense for decades, and the warranty expired when you turned twelve.”

She pulls back enough to glare at me through wet lashes. “You’re comforting me very aggressively.”

“I’m your sister. Tenderness has to be rationed or you’ll get spoiled.”

That earns me a real laugh.

The sound hits me straight in the chest.

For three hours, I’ve watched her relive the worst parts of her life. Hearing her laugh now feels like getting a small piece of her back.