Page 231 of What We Become

“That’s my cue! More presents,” he announces, clapping his hands, then wincing because he forgot about his injuries. “Ow.”

“You already gave me an SUV and a fucking knife,” I say.

“The SUV doesn’t count since it’s totaled,” he says. “But insurance will handle it. And the bulletproof glass absolutely saved our lives, so—winning. But the SUV was the big gift. The fucking knife was an IOU. This is the sentimental gift.” He pushes a box across the table. It’s wrapped in black paper with a gold ribbon that’s been tied with more enthusiasm than skill.

I open it.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a carved wooden figure. Small—maybe four inches tall. It’s a woman. Hair down, chin up, something in her hand that looks like a knife.

“I made it,” Milo says. Quieter now. The comedian is gone, revealing the real person underneath. “I kept practicing after the cabin. But that’s you at your most powerful—when you have your knife in your hand and you’re about to rain vengeance.”

I turn it in my fingers, examining it closer. The detail is extraordinary. Her face isn’t quite mine, but it isn’t quite not mine either. She’s fierce and small and the thing in her hand is definitely a knife—no penis this time.

“Milo.”

“If you cry, I’ll have to cry, and I already told you⁠—”

“Shut up. I’m crying. Deal with it.”

He grins. His eyes are wet too.

Micah’s gift is next. A scrapbook. A handmade binder, pages printed and laminated, organized by tabs. Some pages have recipes. Others have photos or scraps of something glued in—like the ticket stubs from the night we all went to the amusement park. But next to every item is a neatly written memory in Micah’s careful script. Tiny observations. Things I said and apparently forgot. Things they noticed when I wasn’t looking.

Page one is titled SAGE LIKES.

Under it:

Peach rings but only the sour ones.

Purple gummy clusters.

Extra pickles.

Thunderstorms if she’s indoors.

The smell of old books and expensive cologne.

Being read to when she’s too tired to admit she’s tired.

Sharp knives.

Clean sheets.

Pink tulips.

When Knox stands behind her in crowded rooms.

When Eli says good girl in that voice.

When Milo makes her laugh when she’s trying not to.

When Holden forgets to be mean.

When Micah brushes her hair.

My vision goes blurry by line six and stays that way.

“Micah,” I whisper.