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She’s heavier than she was when she was nine…but not much.

Stripping her out of Evelyn’s gray dress is like undressing a mannequin. She’s just as docile, not lifting a finger to help me. I hesitate at her underwear when I realize she’s wearing some kind of feminine hygiene product, then pull it off anyway, keeping my eyes averted.

She doesn’t resist when I lift her over the side of the tub, or when I ease her down into a sit, but the moment I let go of her, she slides bonelessly under the milky water.

“Billy!” I grab her armpits and haul her up, staring at her in disbelief. “Little bit of help here, please?”

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

But I don’t trust she can hold herself up if she tried, so I keep her pressed against the back of the tub with a hand on her sternum as I clumsily wash her face with the other.

The cut on her lip is angry and red, but not as deep as I thought it would be. And when I splash water over the gouges in her cheek, they hardly bleed at all.

I grimace as I work the mashed potatoes and gravy out of her hair. I pull out a big clump and hold it out for her to see.

“Want some?” I joke weakly. “Or should I bring you some more glass?”

Nothing.

“Billy?”

She blinks slowly, but her eyes remain unfocused, her lids heavy.

I stop trying to make conversation, focusing on cleaning her up as quickly as possible. We’ve been through a lot of weird shit in our lives, but bathing my sister in the tub after a nightmare Thanksgiving food fight takes the cake.

The sooner the moon rises on this day, the better.

“I dream about it all the time,” she says out of nowhere a few minutes later.

I’d been rubbing at one of the fork wounds on her arm, washing it out with the bar of antibacterial soap. Her voice is so unexpected, I drop the soap in the scummy lavender-and-gravy bathwater.

“Jeez,” I breathe. “What are you on about now?” I spot more gravy on her hair and reach over to wash it out.

“The birthday party. You remember?”

I pause, my hands still tangled in her hair.

“That was a long time ago, Billy.”

“I know.” She smiles, then winces, her face going slack again. “I keep dreaming about it.”

“That’s…nice,” I offer.

I wouldn’t share the things I dream about with my sister. They’re incredibly violent or incredibly sexual. Usually both. Not exactly a sign of a healthy mind, according to the psychology papers and journals littered around Evelyn’s study.

“I dream I’m Lily.”

“Lily?” I murmur, rubbing potatoes out of her hair.

“The birthday girl. I’m her, but her name’s Lily. I’m turning thirteen.”

“You’re already thirteen,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.

“Mom made me a blue cake with butterflies on it because that’s what I wanted. SheaskedwhatIwanted, and then she made me a chocolate cake with blue icing and fondant butterflies.”

“Our mom?” I scoff.

“Hazel,” Billy says. “Our mom’s name is Hazel. She’s so beautiful, Bash. Pretty, and kind, and the best baker in town. Everyone is always raving about her double chocolate chip cookies.”