'I'm grieved,' she says. 'I'm in this way, so heartbroken.'
I'm under the water, under the loch.
'Isla.' It's my mom's voice, quieted. She's in one component, I'm in another. 'Isla, sweetheart, emerge from the water.'
The surge of water breaking around my head. The flying of my ears.
'Isla.' My mom's voice, more clear at this point. 'Out you come.'
My eyes open to cold twilight spilling between the shades. I pull myself upstanding, pull the pad up despite my good faith. My face is wet. I wipe my cheeks with the impact points of my hands, and at that time I feel my sister's quality so emphatically, I glance around, anticipating that she should be perched on the bed. She isn't.
No, she isn't. She is with my folks now and won't ever sit on the finish of my bed, never complain me when I
