Meeting the Family

The Hollow Garden was never quiet. Even when the hour demanded stillness—early-morning, before the sun had burned the haze out of the air—the wind insisted on a conversation, setting every leaf atremble, and the thousand insects and birds that lived here never got the memo about reverence. But Sarah’s cottage always seemed soundless, a negative space on the map, as if the world itself was holding its breath just outside the warped-glass windows.

“Aunt Sarah,” Riley said as she stepped into the silence of the room, as she always did, her voice too large in the hush. “It’s us.”

Sarah sat in her rocking chair by the window, just as she had every morning since she had arrived here. The old wooden rocker was so eroded by use that it was more a memory of a chair than a real one—an artifact from before the world went off-axis. Sarah moved at exactly the same rate as the breeze in the trees outside, a slow, precise rock, back and forth.

Behind Riley, Laura stepped in. She’d reabsorbed her doubled self into a single body—she was just Laura, eyes soft but unblinking as she watched her mother. She closed the distance and took her usual place on the low stool, a little off to the side, close enough to be caught in Sarah’s peripheral vision if Sarah had the will to look.

Sarah’s voice kept running in a loop, soft as the hush of the air: “my baby girl, my baby girl, I love you, sweet girl.” She did not break cadence when the door opened, or when the old hinges shuddered as it shut. The chant had been the undercurrent of every visit, and by now Riley found it comforting, even as it made her want to punch holes in the walls.

Riley shifted JJ higher against her shoulder, careful with his head, and moved into the light of the window. JJ was wrapped up in a blanket too thick for the day, but he’d fussed less with it, and she’d learned to take the small victories. She leaned down, made sure Sarah could see the bundle, and said, “Aunt Sarah, I brought someone with me today. Can you say hello?”

Sarah’s eyes did not flicker toward the bundle, but there was a hitch in her rocking—one tick of the metronome slightly off, as if her body was still lagging behind the current moment. “my baby girl, my baby girl, I love you, sweet girl,” she kept on, the words almost indistinguishable, the sound more a vibration than language.

“This is John, JJ,” Riley said, not knowing why she needed to spell it out, just knowing she had to.

Sarah’s eyes drifted from the window. They passed across the blankness of her own lap, then lingered an inch to the side of the cream-wrapped bundle in Riley’s arms. The movement was so small it would have been easy to miss, except after three days of visits, Riley had learned to clock every twitch. The chant in Sarah’s throat wavered, nearly caught, then righted itself and went on, the cycle only a half-second out of phase. “my baby girl, my baby girl, I love you, sweet girl.”

Riley crouched, lowering JJ so his head was level with the armrest. He made a soft, breathy noise—somewhere between a hiccup and a cough—that pulled Sarah’s gaze closer. Not all the way. But closer.

“He’s alive,” Riley said. She surprised herself, hearing the note of defense in her voice, as if she were offering proof to a court. “It’s really him. Andy did it without even meaning to, last night. We heard his cry, and—” Her voice caught. “He was back.”

This time the words seemed to hit something inside Sarah. Her hands, always in slow motion, stopped for a full measure. The breath caught in her chest, and her eyes went a little wide—just a sliver, a glitch in the normal run. Then her hands started again, faster now, fingers working over each other as if they had to make up for lost time. She said, “My baby girl, my baby girl, I love you, sweet girl.” The phrase snapped together so quick it almost sounded angry.

Riley sat, JJ still in the crook of her arm, and settled onto the rag rug near the stool where Laura always took her seat.

Laura leaned over and took her mother’s hand. She did this every time, and every time, Sarah let her. The grip was so limp it was like holding water. Laura smoothed her thumb over the back of Sarah’s hand and stayed there a moment, just breathing, her eyes on the middle distance. When she finally spoke, her voice came out smaller than she’d meant it to. “I have news, too.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “I’m pregnant, Mom.” She stopped. Started again. “Arabella says it’s a girl. Three weeks.” Her thumb kept moving over her mother’s hand, the same slow arc, as if the motion were the only thing keeping her in the room.

Sarah’s head turned a fraction, just enough to suggest the sound had hit its target, but her eyes stayed in the same blank quadrant as before. The chant didn’t break, but it moved to a different register—higher, more childlike, as if Sarah was talking to the past instead of the present.

“I believe you can hear me, Mom,” Laura went on, voice raw, “and I wanted you to know. You are going to be a grandmother.” She drew in a breath, the kind that always felt too big for her ribs. “We… Andy and I, we saw her once already, in a dream, yesterday. On one of the Dream Dates. She was a year old, but I recognized her.” She laughed, a sound so light it barely disturbed the air. “She looked a little like you, but with Andy’s nose. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

Sarah’s rocking slowed—not a lot, but enough that it stood out. Her gaze flicked toward the center of Laura’s body, then away again.

Laura squeezed her hand. “I don’t know if I’ll be here long enough to even meet her, Mom. The wedding’s in two days, and...” Laura pressed her lips together. “I’m scared of missing her. I’m not scared of dying, not really. But I’m scared of missing her. Missing you. Andy. Riley. Myra. Everyone.” She let out a long, uneven breath. “I want to be there for her. I want to stay, this time. I don’t want to go.”

As soon as the words were out, Sarah’s hand went rigid in Laura’s grip. She pulled free, the movement abrupt, then gathered her hands in her lap. Her whole body collapsed inward, chin to chest, as if drawing up armor.

Laura sat back, blinking. She didn’t reach again, just smoothed her hands over her knees and stared at the wall.

Riley watched it all from the rug. She wanted to fill the silence, to soften the sharp edge of the room, but every word felt like a trespass. JJ squirmed in her arms, his tiny hand emerging from the blanket and clamping onto Riley’s finger. She lifted him up, so he was facing Sarah.

Sarah didn’t look at the baby. Her rocking went back to its earlier rhythm, and the chant returned, a little quieter now, as if she were talking herself through a storm: “my baby girl, my baby girl, I love you, sweet girl.”

Laura nodded, as if she’d expected that answer, and stood. She leaned in, kissed her mother on the forehead, and said, “I’ll come back tomorrow.” She didn’t look at Sarah’s face when she said it. She just closed her eyes, held still for a breath, and pulled away.

The chant followed them out, steady as the wind, as if it had always been there. “my baby girl, my baby girl, I love you, sweet girl.” The sound blurred together, but neither of them missed a word.

They shut the door, careful not to let it slam, and walked back out into the green noise of the Hollow Garden. Outside, with the hush of the cottage giving way to birdsong, Laura let out a slow, even breath, and a second Laura peeled free beside her, already matching her stride. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in stereo, wondering what had disturbed her mother enough to withdraw her hands, then opened her eyes and let Riley lead her away, leaving Sarah behind, rocking and repeating, as if the world never changed at all.

---

The path through the Hollow Garden was alive with noise, every square inch of air pulsing with insects and birds and the wind’s private language. It was a relief, in a way, to leave the hush of Sarah’s cottage and step out into a world that didn’t know how to do quiet. JJ gurgled at every change in the light, his face scrunching and releasing as the sun hit and left him in staccato flashes.

Riley let herself look up and around, just for a minute, and was rewarded by the sound of two sets of footsteps heading the opposite way down the path. She could tell who it was before the voices reached her. Marie moved with an efficiency that sounded almost like impatience—short, purposeful strides that didn’t waste energy on conversation. Myra, holding Marie’s hand, let herself be pulled along, but the set of her body was different: lighter, almost dancing, the two fluffy tails behind her fanned out and catching the breeze like a ship’s sails.

Marie was the first to spot them. She raised a hand in silent hello, then let her gait slow to a more social pace, though she kept Myra’s hand tucked in her own as if it anchored her to the path. Her face, normally neutral, bent into the ghost of a smile when she saw the doubled Lauras side by side, and she gave the sort of nod that managed to acknowledge both at once without breaking stride.

Myra grinned, showing teeth, and called, “Hey! We were just coming to find you.” She looked as if she might skip down the path, but Marie’s grip steadied her. If she noticed the forced happiness on Myra’s side, she didn’t seem to act on it.

“Morning,” Marie said. “How was your mother today?”

Laura responded, both bodies in sync. “The same,” she said, and the way her hands folded behind her backs was so perfectly mirrored it would have been creepy if it weren’t so familiar. “But she noticed me, I think. She noticed Riley, too.”

Marie nodded. She waited, expecting more, but the doubled Laura’s body language said the subject was closed. Myra took a half-step forward, her attention swinging from Laura to Riley and then down to the bundle in Riley’s arms. Her ears pricked forward. “What have you got?” she asked, cocking her head.

Riley, caught, looked to Laura for support, but both of Laura’s bodies were now watching the exchange with open curiosity. It was only then that Riley realized JJ had started fussing again, the movement shifting the whole blanket-wrapped mass into a squirmy, protesting blob. She tried to hush him, rocking a little, but Myra’s attention had locked on.

“Sorry,” Riley said, and she let the blanket fall away to show JJ’s face, revealing a red, cranky, and profoundly unimpressed infant. “This is… well, this is JJ.”

Myra’s eyes shifted towards the baby, but she went very still as she studied him with her other sight. Marie’s eyes, by contrast, went wide in shock—a rare break in her composure. She looked from JJ to Riley, then back again, and her mouth opened, then closed. Finally: “Yours?”

Riley laughed, short and dry. “Yeah. He, uh, came back last night.” She paused, realizing how ridiculous that sounded. “He died in December. Andy… Andy brought him back, without meaning to.”

Marie’s hand went to her mouth, but she didn’t let go of Myra. Her knuckles were white where they gripped. She stared at the baby as if he might start talking any second. “Andy did this?” The words came out clipped, almost sharp. Her eyes cut from the baby to Riley’s face and back again, a frantic, disbelieving search. “Just… casually? He just… remade a person?” Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “My God.”

Riley nodded, her own gaze fixed on Marie’s reaction. “He didn’t even know he could. It just… happened.”

Marie took a half-step back, pulling Myra with her as if putting distance between herself and the impossible thing in Riley’s arms. “He’s alive,” she said, and it wasn’t a question, just a fact she was forcing herself to absorb through the shock. “Fully?”

“Fully,” said Riley, nodding. Her own voice was steadier now, a rock in the face of Marie’s storm. “He’s not a copy. He’s JJ, and he’s here for good.” She looked down at him, a strange, giddy pride coming through the tiredness in her face.

Myra, still holding Marie’s hand, reached out tentatively toward the baby. “Can I?” she asked, voice soft.

Riley moved closer and held JJ out. Myra passed Marie’s hand back to her like something borrowed, then received the baby with both arms, finding the right position without hesitation. She settled him against her chest and bent her head toward him. “Hi, little JJ,” she said, quiet and unhurried. “I’m your Aunt Myra.” JJ stared up at her, or in her direction, anyway, and gurgled.

Myra’s breath caught. Her hand moved to hover just above his head, not quite touching. “He’s…” She trailed off, then tried again. “It’s like standing next to a lamp. A really warm one.” She smiled, slow and awed. “He’s not scared. He’s not even a little sad. He’s just—happy. Like he already knows he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.”

Marie’s expression softened, a little of the shock melting into something like relief. “Does he have… memories? Of before?”

Riley shrugged, helpless. “He’s just a baby. He eats, sleeps, shits, and yells.” She watched Myra hold him. “But yeah. He’s calm. He’s been calm since the second he came back. He fusses now and then, obviously, but…”

Myra turned her head towards Riley and smiled softly. “He loves you,” she said. “He’s just… radiating it. Like a little sun.”

Riley looked at the baby, blinking rapidly. “That’s more than I ever managed to get out of him,” she joked, voice cracking halfway through. Myra passed JJ back to her and she clutched the bundle tighter, then caught herself and loosened her grip, letting JJ’s hand poke out and grab at the air.

Marie let go of Myra and reached out to touch JJ’s foot, her finger brushing the soft fabric with extreme caution. “I’m happy for you,” she said, her voice cracking, warmer now. “Are you okay?”

Riley snorted, but there was no venom in it. “Not even a little,” she said. “My brain is still two months behind. I don’t know if I’m dreaming or if I’m going to wake up and find him gone again.” She met Marie’s eyes. “But I’m glad you’re here to see it.”

Myra’s ears twitched, and she said, “How was Aunt Sarah today?”

“The same as always,” said Laura. She added, “but she heard us. She heard about JJ, and about the baby.” A pause. “She didn’t really react, but I think she heard.”

Marie’s head snapped up. “What baby?”

Laura’s cheeks pinked. “I’m pregnant. About three weeks.”

Marie’s face did something it rarely did—it opened, all at once, the careful neutrality gone. She crossed to the nearest Laura in two steps and pulled her in, one hand at the back of her head the way you’d hold someone you’d known since they were small. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, and it came out rough. “I’m so glad.”

Laura’s arms came up and held on, but her chin was over Marie’s shoulder, and both pairs of her eyes were somewhere else entirely. “Me too,” she said, both voices quiet, and not quite in sync.

Riley watched this, her mouth twisting into a shape that was almost a smile and almost a grimace. “We were actually on our way to see my mother next,” she said, voice wobbling back to its regular register. “She doesn’t know yet. About JJ. Or the baby. I want her to meet him.”

Marie stepped back from Laura, nodded once, and said, “Can we come?”

Riley grinned, lopsided. “Hell yes. I want her to have the full reunion. I think it would do her good to see all of us together, even if she acts like it doesn’t matter.”

Myra, beaming now, stepped up to Riley’s side. “Can I hold him, for a bit?”

Riley looked at the baby, who was now staring at his own fist. “If he doesn’t mind. Just, you know, be ready. He likes to surprise people.”

Myra held out her arms, and Riley gently transferred the baby into them. Myra’s touch was careful and practiced, her hands finding the right position as if she had done this a hundred times. JJ gurgled once, then settled with a sigh, his small hand tangling in Myra’s sleeve.

Marie watched this, and the smallest of smiles appeared at the corner of her mouth. “You’re good at that,” she said.

Myra looked up, glowing with pride. “I couldn’t tell you how or why.” She gave a small laugh, then cradled JJ closer. “He really is a happy baby,” she said. “It’s like he knows all the secrets already, and just thinks we’re idiots for worrying.”

Marie placed her hand gently on Myra’s shoulder. “We should go,” she said, “before we lose the moment.”

The group started down the path, the doubled Lauras on one side, Myra and Marie on the other, and Riley in the middle, hands free for the first time in months. She didn’t say it out loud, but for a fleeting second, she felt almost whole.

They walked the rest of the way together, JJ riding in Myra’s arms like a tiny captain at the prow of a ship, his eyes closed and his face set in the solemn expression of someone who had seen every world and come back with nothing left to prove.

---

Sandra’s cottage sat deeper on the plain, further from the path, as if the builders had wanted to give her every advantage in evasion. It was smaller than the others, every blind was drawn, every light already on, as if today, the place refused the ordinary cycle of day and night.

Marie led the way. She didn’t knock—no one here ever did, it seemed—but paused just inside the vestibule, as if asking the room’s permission to enter. “Sandra?” She called out. The others crowded in behind her. It was warm in the cottage, not just from the lamps but from the closely-packed bodies: Marie, Myra, the doubled Laura, and Riley who had taken JJ back, the baby fidgeting and squawking in her arms. JJ made a sharp, surprised noise at the shift in air, then wriggled himself back to sleep against Riley’s shoulder.

It was too quiet. Even Myra felt it, her ears flattening for a second. She squeezed Marie’s hand, then let go and drifted to the wall, hovering near a side table stacked with battered paperbacks and hand-made baskets.

Riley cleared her throat. “Hello?” she called, keeping her voice low. “It’s Riley. Can I come in?”

A shape behind the shoji screen by the back window shifted. Sandra never let herself be seen fully—Riley had heard the stories, about why that was—but her silhouette looked more animal than person. She was on all fours, the way a dog sits at attention, shoulders hunched and head cocked at the door. “Always,” Sandra’s voice called back, a touch of the old Chicago edge still clinging to the vowels. “You can come in.”

Marie crossed to the far side of the room, putting herself between the shoji and the rest of the group, not defensive, just ready. The others filed in quietly. Myra, grinning despite the tension, called, “Morning, Auntie Sandy!” The two tails behind her swished, half out of excitement, half out of nerves.

Sandra’s voice, much closer now, replied, “Hi, Myra. Marie, you brought her?” There was something in the tone—maybe pride, maybe warning.

Marie’s answer was clipped. “She’s my daughter,” she said, and that was that.

Sandra’s laugh was low and unbothered. “Good. Shoulda let you keep her the first time. How’s the morning?”

Marie shrugged. “We’re still here.”

A pause, then Sandra murmured, “That’s the best you can do some days.”

The room went quiet again. Laura flanked the open archway, both sets of eyes tracking the outline behind the screen. It was uncanny, the way the two bodies managed the exact same lean, the same hand-in-pocket stance. “Hi, Aunt Sandra,” Laura said.

“Hi, Laura,” Sandra replied. There was a little pause, then, “You too, Myra. Glad you could make it. Who else?”

Riley’s turn. “Just us,” she said, “but, uh—I’ve got someone with me, if that’s all right.” She nodded down at JJ, now only half-wrapped in the blanket, one tiny fist poking into the air.

Sandra’s voice sharpened, attentive. “Who’s that?”

Riley smiled, suddenly nervous. “He’s new. I mean—he’s mine, but—” She stopped, blinked a few times. “It’s a long story.”

“Stories are what I do,” Sandra said. There was the sound of her moving behind the screen, the shuffle and scrape of her weight shifting, but still no full reveal. “Bring him over?”

The room rearranged itself—Marie to the door, Myra to the far wall, the Lauras hanging back, clearing a path for Riley. She walked up and stopped a few feet from the screen. JJ was awake again, eyes wide, his face registering the lamp-light as something to be suspicious of.

“His name is John Anthony Bennett Jr.,” Riley said, voice even. “JJ for short.” She cradled his head and shifted the blanket so his face was aimed straight ahead, as if he might see the woman behind the screen and remember her. “He was born a couple months ago. Died one day later.” She looked at the shape behind the shoji, voice breaking. “Last night, Andy brought him back. I mean, not on purpose, but… we were at the cemetery, and he saw me losing it, and he just… he wanted to make me happy. It just happened. We found him behind his own gravestone, breathing and pink and real.”

The silence behind the screen lasted long enough that Riley almost spoke again to fill it. Then Sandra’s voice came back, and the Chicago edge was completely gone. “He was born two months ago.” She said it the way you say something you’re trying to make real by saying it out loud. “And you’ve been—” She stopped. The screen shifted, a slow lean toward Riley. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to something private and wrecked: “That little boy with the skinned knees brought your baby back.”

“Yeah,” Riley said again, voice wobbling. “He’s why Laura’s here, you know? She… it’s all because of him. And now this.” She looked down at JJ, kissed the top of his head, then faced the screen again. “He’s real, Mom. He’s mine. He’s yours, too, if you want him.”

A choked, wet sound came from behind the screen, like a sob caught in a throat not built for it. “Bring him closer. Please.”

Riley took a step, then stopped, her feet rooted to the floorboards. She looked down at JJ, then toward the screen, her voice thick when she spoke. “Mom—please. Can you come out? Just for this. Just for a minute?” She swallowed, hard. “My whole world got turned upside down last night. In a good way, for once. And I know I’m a grown-ass woman now, but… I really just want you to actually hold me through it. Not just talk to me through a piece of fabric.” Her breath hitched; she was crying now, tears spilling freely, JJ still cradled safe against her chest. “Please.”

There was no answer at first. Then, the sound of a switch—every lamp in the room died at once. The only light left came from behind the shoji, backlighting the shape in gray-blue, but as Riley’s eyes adjusted, she saw the outline detach from the screen and cross the floor, silent as a ghost.

Sandra’s voice came from a foot away, soft, oddly shy, not filtered by the screen anymore. “This is the best I can do today, baby.”

Riley felt the presence before she saw it, a warmth in the dark, close and a little scary, but not threatening. She stepped in, closed the gap, and wrapped her free arm around her mother’s neck, careful not to jostle the baby.

Sandra’s arms came up around her, stiffer than human arms, and closed in an embrace that was less a hug and more a brace against collapse. The hands were more like paws, but they were gentle, and that gentleness was what did it—Riley had been barely holding herself together since the cemetery, since JJ’s first cry in the dark, since every impossible thing that had happened in the last twelve hours, and now here was her mother’s arms, and she just came apart. A sound tore out of her that she hadn’t planned, raw and ugly, the kind of crying that had no dignity in it. She pressed her face into Sandra’s neck and shook.

“I need you,” she managed. “Mom. I need you so much.”

Sandra’s whole body shuddered. The sound she made wasn’t a word at all. Then, voice rough, she said, “I need you, too, sweetheart.” Her voice was wrecked. “I missed you every single day.”

Riley couldn’t answer. She just held on.

JJ fussed in the dark, a soft, piping sound. Sandra let go of Riley just enough to make a space for the baby. “Let me see him,” she whispered.

Riley shifted JJ forward. Sandra’s paw—large, bristly, but gentle—cupped the baby and held him up to where her face would have been. “Hi, JJ,” Sandra said, the words uneven. “Hi, little man. I’m your grandma. I’m right here.”

Riley let the hug collapse, let herself go boneless into the hold. “You’re really here,” she said, the words pure shock. “You’re really here.”

Sandra just nodded, her muzzle pressed to JJ’s forehead. “He’s beautiful. You did so good, Riley. You did so, so good.” Her voice cracked. “I’m proud of you.”

Marie, from the back of the room, let out a breath like she’d been holding it for a year. Myra, still at the wall, pressed her hands to her face and peeked through her fingers, grinning and weeping all at once. Laura was crying, unashamedly.

Riley steadied herself, then said, “Do you want to know how it happened?”

Sandra gave a chuff of laughter. “Of course. I want every word of it.”

Riley recounted it all: the graveyard, the midnight cry, the way Andy looked like he’d been gut-punched when he realized what he’d done. “He didn’t even mean to,” she said, her voice dropping low. “It just happened. Like he wanted it, deep down, but didn’t know it until it was real. He just wanted me to stop hurting. Until he heard JJ’s cry and realized there was no way it could have come from anywhere else.”

Sandra went very still, holding Riley and the baby in the hush. “That’s a power I don’t understand,” she said, after a long while.

“Me neither,” said Riley, “but I’m grateful for it. I really am.”

They stood in the dark, the only sound JJ’s small, wet breaths and the occasional snuffle from Myra or Marie. After a minute, Sandra pulled back, but only enough to see Riley’s face. “Thank you for this,” she said. “For letting me meet him.”

Riley sniffed, wiped her cheek. “I love you,” she said, a first, and didn’t flinch from it.

Sandra’s response was instant. “I love you, too,” she said, the words blunt and unadorned, but heavier than anything else in the room.

The hug resumed, softer this time, and when Riley finally broke away, she found she could breathe again.

Riley looked down at JJ, then up at her mother’s still-outlined form in the dark. “He wants to meet you,” she said, voice gone shy.

Sandra’s shape shifted, a subtle retreat. “I can’t,” she said, the words soft as ash. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. Not yet.”

But Riley stepped closer anyway, turning the baby to face his grandmother. Sandra bent low, her face nearly brushing the blanket. JJ looked up, face scrunching at the unfamiliar silhouette, and then—miracle of miracles—smiled, gummy and perfect.

“He likes you,” said Myra, and the sound of it made them all laugh.

“I like him, too,” said Sandra. “You can bring him back any time.”

Riley squeezed her mother’s arm, careful to avoid the coarser fur at the joint. “We will,” she promised. “Next time, I’ll bring him in a Cubs hat.”

Sandra, stunned, barked a laugh, the old voice restored for a second. “He’d better. I don’t want to see that boy in Sox colors, not ever.”

They let the moment breathe. Marie, watching from the far wall, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then turned away, pretending she needed to examine the shelf for dust.

“Do you want us to go?” asked Laura, both bodies asking at once, the voices perfectly layered.

“No,” Sandra said. “Stay as long as you want. This is your family, too.”

They did. They sat on the floor, or on the old cushions by the wall, and talked, and let the world do without them for a while. The Hollow Garden was always noisy, but inside Sandra’s cottage, for once, it was okay to just sit in the dark and let the quiet matter. Nobody moved to turn the lights back on.

Later, after the goodbyes and the promises to return, as they filed back out to the path, the door shut softly, leaving the light and the voices and the love inside where they belonged.

---

Norah was already working when they returned. She’d claimed the best corner of the sunroom—table spread with neat, color-coded sticky notes and a growing stack of folded napkins—and pressed Dawn into service as her deputy. In between counting napkin rings and interrogating the suitability of stemware, Norah kept her eye on the door, as if expecting a test at any minute.

It was Dawn who spotted them first, through the blur of glass and light at the far end of the corridor. “Hey,” she said, nodding her chin at the group that filtered in from the garden. “Here come the queens of the hour.”

Norah followed her gaze and saw the four of them: Myra, Marie, the double-bodied Laura, and Riley, the latter cradling a bundled something in the crook of her arm. Norah’s face did a private calculation, then went carefully blank.

Sam, who was sprawled lengthwise on a couch with a comic balanced on her knees, set it aside and greeted the group. “Yo, survivors. Good tour?”

Marie gave a thumbs up, and Myra flopped down on the rug beside her, tails fanning out in perfect symmetry. Myra said, “You have no idea,” and immediately reached for the platter of sliced fruit that Dawn had set out. She fed herself a chunk of mango with visible relief.

Sam turned her attention to Laura. “How’d it go with your mom?”

Laura perched on the edge of a chair, one hand on the armrest, one still on the ghost of the other body. “It was quiet,” she said. “But she listened. I think she’s more herself than people think.”

Sam nodded, absorbing it, but her eyes were already drawn to the blanket-wrapped bundle in Riley’s arms. “Is that…?”

Riley held up JJ, a little awkward, as if afraid he’d dissolve under the attention. “This is JJ,” she said. “He’s new. Well, old, but new. Long story.”

The room, which had been humming with the background noise of harem banter, went still. Even Norah, who’d been muttering at a napkin ring, stopped and stared.

“Holy shit,” said Sam, and crossed the room in three strides. “Can I—?” She held out her hands, then thought better of it. “Wait, is he, like—fragile?”

Riley smiled, uneven. “No more than any other baby, I guess.” She looked down at JJ, who was blinking hard and making wet noises with his mouth. “He came back last night. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Sam looked at her, then at the baby. “May I?” She gestured, arms open.

Riley nodded, relieved. “Yeah. Just… here.” She transferred JJ into Sam’s arms, and for a second, everyone in the room watched as Sam handled the baby like she was born to it. She rocked side to side, murmured something soft, and the baby’s whole body relaxed.

“I thought you said he died?” Norah asked, voice sharp but not unkind.

“He did,” Riley said. “Two months ago. But Andy brought him back.” She looked up, scanning the faces for disbelief, but found none. “It’s not a temporary thing. He's here for good.”

For a heartbeat, the room just held it—like even the sunlight was waiting for someone to challenge the claim. Then Dawn, who’d been a few seconds behind on the conversation, finally looked up from her stack of table linens and made a tiny, involuntary noise, a sound between a gasp and a laugh. She elbowed Norah, who flinched, the motion sending a napkin ring skittering across the glass tabletop.

Norah caught the napkin ring, then just held it, her hand frozen in the act. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes never left JJ. There was a crack in her normal composure, a place where the wall had failed.

On the couch, Sam was still holding JJ, rocking him very gently. She looked at Riley. “Is it okay if I walk him around?” she asked. “He looks like he wants to see the whole place.”

“Yeah,” said Riley, a bit too loud, like she was afraid the permission might get revoked if she didn’t answer instantly.

Sam stood, shifting JJ from one arm to the other. His head lolled, a little precarious, but Sam was careful, holding his neck in her palm as she paced the perimeter of the sunroom. “He’s happy,” she said, and the way she said it was not quite disbelief, but close. “He’s warm. He’s real.”

Marissa was the next to unfreeze. She crossed the room, her steps silent in her ballet flats, and stopped just shy of the baby. Her face did something complex—first the wide, open-mouthed awe, then a hard swallow, then a tightening of her jaw. “That’s not possible,” she said, voice threading up into a question she didn’t want answered.

Riley shrugged, but the motion looked like it was held together with tape. “Tell that to Andy. Or Arabella. Or me.” She wiped her eyes, hard, with the sleeve of her jacket. “He’s just—he’s back.”

Marissa reached out, stopped, let her hand hover over the baby’s head. “May I?”

Sam nodded and angled JJ so Marissa could see his face. She didn’t touch him, but she studied him with the same intensity she used to decode her patients. “He looks… exactly right,” she said, voice thinning as it went. “There’s no mark on him. No sign he was ever—” The word didn’t come.

“Gone,” supplied Riley. “You can say it. He was dead, now he isn’t.”

That broke something in the room, a ripple that moved outward from Marissa to everyone else. Norah put her hands flat on the table and didn’t move. Dawn was openly crying, but didn’t seem to notice. Even Claire, who’d been scribbling something in her notebook this entire time, looked up and let her glasses slip a little further down her nose.

“He’s beautiful,” Dawn said, voice watery but steady. “He looks so much like you.”

Sam snorted, glancing over the baby’s face. “No offense, Riley, but he’s a lot cuter.”

“Zero offense,” Riley shot back, her mouth twitching at the edges. “I agree.”

The joke let the tension off the hook. For a second, everyone relaxed—the air unknotted, and the sunroom was just a room again.

Marissa asked, softly, “Can I hold him?”

Sam handed him over carefully. Marissa took him with both arms, cradling him with a fluidity that looked instinctive. JJ squirmed for a second, then quieted, staring up at her with that blank, uncensored curiosity that only babies have.

Marissa’s breath caught in her throat, loud enough that Sam and Norah both looked at her. She pressed her cheek to JJ’s head, just once, then looked at Riley. “You said Andy brought him back. Was it… was it like with my parents?”

Riley hesitated. “Sort of. But this isn’t a time-limited thing. Arabella said so. He’s not going to vanish when the spell wears off. He’s really here, for good.” She made a small, helpless gesture. “I don’t understand it. I just know it’s true.”

At the mention of her parents, Marissa’s hands trembled. She bent her head, held JJ a little closer, and for a second, just breathed. When she finally spoke, her voice was level again. “He’s perfect, Riley.” She handed him to Dawn, who was waiting with arms already open.

Dawn took JJ and rocked him automatically, shifting her weight from foot to foot, the way she would with her youngest brother when he was tiny and inconsolable. The baby quieted instantly, and Dawn’s face did a thing where all her sadness collapsed into pure, stunned happiness. “He’s so calm,” she said. “I’ve never seen a baby this calm.”

“He gets it from me,” Riley deadpanned.

The room laughed, for real this time.

Marissa drifted back to the group, but not before she paused at the window, her hands pressed flat to the sill, her breath fogging the glass. She was shaking, just slightly, the way a person does when they’ve barely dodged disaster and now can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

Sam noticed. She slipped over and put a hand on Marissa’s back. “You all right?”

Marissa nodded, but her eyes never left the baby. “It’s… it’s mindblowing.”

Sam squeezed her shoulder. “Yeah. I know.”

On the other side of the room, Claire had finished writing. She tore the page off, folded it once, and held it up. It read: DOES HE HAVE YOUR ATTITUDE YET OR ARE WE SAFE FOR A WHILE? She passed the note to Riley, who read it and snorted so hard she had to wipe her nose with her sleeve again.

“Give it a week,” Riley said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m sure he’ll be impossible by then.”

Dawn, who still had the baby, rocked him back and forth with a practiced rhythm. She looked up. “He’s perfect. I mean it, Riley.”

“Thanks,” said Riley. Her voice was dry again. “I keep waiting for someone to tell me it’s not real. But it feels… it feels more real than anything.”

JJ made a noise, a little snuffling complaint. Dawn tried to quiet him, but he squawked again. She passed him back to Riley, who received him like a fragile package. The baby settled instantly against Riley’s shoulder, as if even he could sense the threshold had shifted. All the women in the room watched him, then each other, not quite sure if it was polite to be the next to ask. It was as if the air itself had thickened, waiting for someone to prove this wasn’t just a one-off miracle—waiting for the rules to snap back, to put things right and terrible again.

Norah pushed back her chair, walked up to Riley, and came to stand just out of arm’s reach. Her face was naked of anything that could have passed for strategy. She looked down at JJ, then at Riley, then back at JJ. “He’s warm-blooded, right?” she said, tone neutral.

Riley nodded, but it came out as a laugh. “Yeah, unless I got punked by the world’s first fake baby with a pulse.”

Norah’s lips twisted, considering. “Does he have a birth certificate? Like, if you go home, will the world know he’s ever been dead?”

Riley grinned. “Ask Arabella. Or Andy, for that matter.”

Sam watched all this with a slow-burning smile, as if nothing could surprise her but she still loved every new thing. She stretched, popped her back with both hands, and said, “Hey, kid. You want to take him for a tour?” She was addressing Dawn, who blinked, startled, and then brightened. Literally.

“Um. Oh. Yes? If that’s okay?” Dawn wiped her palms on the front of her skirt, then stepped up and reached for JJ with both arms.

Riley transferred him gently, watching Dawn’s hands like a hawk, but Dawn needed no guidance. She’d spent her entire life carrying kittens, kids, and needy men; a baby was just a different species of helpless. She curled JJ into her arm, nuzzled his head with her chin, and immediately started a gentle bounce that set the baby’s lids fluttering.

Dawn did a slow, circuitous lap of the sunroom, as if teaching him every plant, every patch of sunlight, every color. She murmured softly in Spanish—mostly nonsense, but the tone was all music—and JJ made a high, contented coo in response. When she reached the window, she turned so the light struck his face, illuminating the dark fuzz of his hair and the impossibly small, perfect curve of his ear.

“He’s beautiful, Riley,” Dawn said. She did not cry, but the edge of her voice quavered just enough to betray her. “He has your ears. And your forehead. Sorry.”

Riley laughed, surprised by the pleasure of being razzed in her own likeness. “He’s got my stubborn, too,” she said. “He didn’t want to come out, when he was born. Doctor said it was like wrestling a watermelon with a will to live.”

Sam, who had been waiting for a lull, leaned over the back of the couch to peer at the baby. “Did he get the Angel Caller?” she asked. “The one you wore every day?” Her voice went soft, for Sam, but it cut through the noise anyway.

Riley tapped her own neck, where the necklace was still visible above her shirt. “Not yet. I’ll give it to him when he’s old enough to not swallow it, or try to break it in half.”

Sam grinned. “He’ll get there. If he’s yours.”

There was a tap at the door, and Claire returned, this time with Katherine walking beside her, one hand resting lightly on the small of her back as if guiding a nervous guest. Katherine’s eyes, bright green and startlingly real, locked on JJ at once. She leaned forward slightly, her shoulders softening, and her gaze grew, if anything, more intent.

Dawn brought the baby to her, holding him so he faced the woman. There was a moment where nothing happened, then Katherine lifted her hand in the smallest, most careful wave, and JJ’s arms flailed as if in reply. Dawn, eyes wide, said, “Did you see that?” and the whole room murmured yes, as if they’d rehearsed it in advance.

Katherine pressed her palm flat against her own chest. The gesture was familiar; it was the same one she’d given Riley that first morning on the Walk of Remembrance, the one that needed no words to carry its meaning. Riley felt it like a thump under her ribs, sudden and heavy.

“He likes you,” Dawn said. “He knows you’re family.”

Katherine smiled with her whole face—an expression that looked too complex for someone who’d been silent so long—and inclined her head in gratitude, never breaking eye contact with JJ. Claire, watching, scribbled something in her notebook and smiled herself, as if she’d just solved a riddle that had been plaguing her since childhood.

The baby fussed, squirmed, and Dawn patted his back until he hiccupped, then quieted again. She brought him around the room, offering him to each woman as if introducing a celebrity. Marissa hesitated, but when Dawn offered, she took the baby in both arms, as if expecting he might explode. She looked at him, then at Riley, then back at JJ.

Marissa’s voice was gentle. “What’s it like, knowing he’s alive again?” She cradled the baby a little tighter, her own body going rigid in a way that betrayed the depth of feeling she otherwise kept at arm’s length.

Riley considered. “I haven’t figured it out yet. I keep waiting for the catch. Like, maybe Arabella was just being nice and tomorrow I’ll wake up and he’ll be gone again.” She pressed her hands into her thighs, hard enough to leave marks. “But right now, it feels like… I don’t know. Like maybe this place can be for good, too. Like maybe some things actually get to work out.”

Marissa nodded, and for a second, just held the baby, her eyes closed. Then, quietly, she handed JJ back to Dawn and retreated to the window. Sam watched her go, but didn’t follow, just sat and let the moment be what it was.

Dawn offered the baby to Norah, who at first raised both hands in a ‘not it’ gesture. When she saw Riley’s face, though, she relented, gathering JJ into her arms with more competence than she’d ever shown with anything that couldn’t be measured or graphed.

“He’s so small,” Norah said, more to herself than to the room. “I always thought babies would be squishy. He’s not. He’s… solid.”

Riley said, “Yeah, he’s got a weirdly firm grip. Also, please don’t squish him.”

Norah looked down at JJ, who was gripping her index finger with alarming intensity. “He’s not letting go,” she said, voice rising in wonder.

“Neither am I,” Riley answered, and the two locked eyes for a second, sharing a private, non-verbal pact. Norah nodded, then handed JJ gently to the next in line.

It was Claire. She didn’t reach out immediately, instead watched the baby with an intensity usually reserved for rare manuscripts. Then she lifted JJ, cradled him, and—without a word—tucked him against her chest. Her face, which rarely betrayed more than a polite interest in the world, opened. For one brief, unmistakable moment, Claire looked at JJ and beamed. When she finally handed him back, she wrote, in quick block letters: TELL HIM I’LL SHOW HIM MY LIBRARY SOMEDAY.

Riley laughed, the tension running out of her in a rush. “He’ll love that,” she said.

Emily had entered at some point—nobody was quite sure when, because her presence was soft as a sunbeam, all warm skin and bare legs and that impossible hair falling just so over the important parts. She hovered at the edge of the group, hands clasped behind her back, not wanting to break the spell. When JJ made a noise, though, she stepped forward, her smile already familiar.

“Can I?” Emily asked, eyes bright with recognition.

Riley nodded, and Emily gathered JJ up with practiced ease, her hands finding their places without hesitation. “Hello again,” she murmured against his temple, her voice a private hum. She rocked him gently, her body remembering the rhythm from earlier in the suite. JJ settled against her shoulder as if returning to a known harbor. Emily’s posture softened into something deeply maternal, her cheek resting against his downy head. She held him until his fussing began—small, hungry sounds—then passed him back to Riley with a slow, deliberate transfer of weight.

Riley clutched her son, breathing in his scent, and felt the world rearrange itself into something bearable. For the first time in a long time, she believed that things might not only get better—they might already be.

There was a moment, in the hush that followed, where the group simply sat, letting the new reality seep into their bones. The sunlight sharpened, glassy on the tiles, and the baby’s small noises seemed to echo in every corner. The women, all of them, looked at JJ and at each other, and for once, nobody felt the need to be clever or cut the tension with a joke.

Laura, who had been hovering near the window, came over and put her hand on Riley’s shoulder. She didn’t say anything, but the grip was firm and warm, and it stayed longer than necessary. Riley let herself lean into it, just for a second, and when she finally straightened, she looked lighter.

Marissa watched this, her face softening. She came back from the window and said, “Can I ask you a personal question?” She kept her voice low, not wanting to break whatever spell the room was under.

Riley nodded, shifting JJ to the other arm. “Shoot.”

Marissa hesitated, then said, “How are you really doing with this? Like, actually?”

Riley considered. “I think…” She looked at JJ, then around the room. “I think it’s the happiest I’ve been since before.” She swallowed, but didn’t let the words catch. “And I don’t want to waste it.”

Marissa nodded, as if the answer had unlocked something for her. She smiled, then put a hand on Riley’s arm, squeezed once, and let go.

The sunroom felt changed, as if the addition of one small person had made it bigger, not smaller. Norah went back to her table linens, but with a smile that lingered at the edge of her mouth. Claire returned to her notebook, scribbling something private but happy. Sam sprawled on the couch, arms behind her head, watching the ceiling as if calculating the exact number of miracles possible per hour.

Riley bounced JJ, her eyes clear and dry for the first time all day, and said, “Who wants him next, before I take him back to Chloe?”

The room, in perfect unison, raised a forest of hands.

---

Sam was working the kitchen like it was a live wire: sleeves cuffed to the elbow, face set in a battle-ready half smile, hands as precise as a metronome. Today, representatives from the entire island’s whiskey inventory for the bachelor party were arrayed before her on the main prep table, every bottle squared to the edge, every label turned front. She ticked through them with a small blue ballpoint and an index card the size of a wedding RSVP, marking each brand with a check, a star, or (in two cases) a question mark that looked more like a dare.

Laura leaned on the doorjamb for a second, watched. Sam didn’t notice at first—she was busy holding a Glengoyne up to the light, as if the clarity of the liquid could answer a metaphysical question. When she finally registered the presence behind her, Sam lifted the bottle in a little salute.

“Morning. Come to pregame for the bachelor party?”

Laura snorted and came in, made a show of reading every bottle that passed her hands as she moved, one body behind the other. “If I drink a finger of each, I’ll need to be carried to my own wedding.”

Sam grinned, not looking up. “I’m the designated carrier. Also, that’s called a real bachelorette party, and you’re supposed to live a little.” She gestured to the neat lineup. “Tomorrow’s whiskey flight. I want Andy to regret ever daring me to plan a party for him. Did you know the hotel stocks four different islands’ worth of single malt, all in the name of cultural sensitivity? I think it’s a flex.”

Laura picked up a bottle labeled BOWMORE and turned it over in her hands. “It’s not cultural sensitivity unless you also stock Malört. Otherwise, you’re just curating a stereotype.”

Sam’s eyes widened, as if she’d never considered this. “You think I can special order Malört for tomorrow? It’s not a whiskey, but it should definitely go into the liquor selection.” She looked at the door, half-serious. “Mildred!”

Nothing happened, but Laura set the bottle down and slid onto two of the kitchen stools, cradling her arms around the cool marble. The bottles, the chart, and Sam’s busy energy seemed to fill up the whole space, even though the light outside was so gentle you could pretend it was a day off.

“Got everything you need yet?” Laura asked, making it sound like she was only half-listening.

“Almost.” Sam capped her pen and set it down, then checked her phone for the time. “Supposed to be a delivery before lunch. And then…” She trailed off, glancing at Laura. “You excited for your dress fitting?”

Laura nodded in stereo, then didn’t answer for a moment. She fixed her attention on the edge of the table, running a finger in tandem along the beveled stone. Sam waited, let the silence ride for five, maybe ten seconds before breaking it.

“You okay?” Sam asked, voice switched to the one she used for confessionals and three a.m. phone calls. “You’re, like, two-thirds here.”

Laura let out a tight breath. “I’m fine. Just…” She found her own hands, realized she’d left a crescent of nail marks in the skin of her palms. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

Sam left her spot at the table, sat on the edge of the counter, and leveled the full force of her attention at Laura. “Bullshit. The last time you went that quiet, you pulled a stunt with Andy that you have not yet fixed, by the way. Try again.”

Laura laughed, but it got lost somewhere in her chest. “This morning I overheard something I wasn’t supposed to.” She glanced up, met Sam’s eyes. “I’ve been sitting on it since, and it’s not mine to talk about, but it’s stuck.”

Sam reached back for her pen, tapped it once against the counter. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Laura said, then added, “but yes.”

“Is it Andy?”

“No. Riley.”

Sam went still, the pen frozen mid-tap. “What about Riley?”

Laura spun a bottle so the label faced her again, used the motion to hide the trembling in her fingers. “After the thing with JJ, this morning I saw Riley pull Andy aside at the elevator.” She smiled, but the edges were sharp. “I’m not a stalker, I just—”

“You’re allowed,” Sam said, quietly.

Laura kept going. “Riley told him she’d changed her mind. About the First Gate thing. She said—” Her voices warped, but she powered through. “She said that Andy had pulled off so many things that were supposed to be impossible, she couldn’t keep betting against him anymore. So whatever the cost is, whatever it does to her, she’ll go through with it now. For him. Because he’s earned her faith.”

Sam whistled, long and low. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” Laura tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. “She didn’t know I was there. Neither of them did. She didn’t tell me this as a sister, or as a warning, or as anything but private.”

Sam picked up the Glengoyne again, as if the added weight helped her process. “And how do you feel about that?”

Laura squeezed her hands together, her knuckles blanching. “I’m happy for her. I’m happy for both of them.” She left it there, let the sentence rot in the air.

Sam said, “But?”

Laura’s mouth twisted. “But something about it sits wrong, and I don’t even know if it should.” She closed her eyes, drew a breath. “It’s like… Riley’s not making a leap of faith because she knows something I don’t. She’s just decided that if you do enough impossible things, eventually you earn the right to ask someone to jump next time, even without proof.”

Sam nodded, slow. “That’s what trust is, Laura. Or hope. Or whatever you want to call it.”

“I know.” Laura looked up, and for once her eyes were raw. “But it’s not the same for me. I don't mean about Andy. I don't mean about the ascension stuff, either. There’s just a feeling that I’m missing the thing that makes the jump possible, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m a coward or just more honest than everyone else.”

Sam opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Laura kept going. “Is it because I’m still not willing to risk my mother, even after everything?” She shook her head. “No, that’s not the whole thing. I already made my peace with that.”

“I know.” Laura looked up, and for once her eyes were raw. “But it’s not the same for me. I don’t mean about Andy. Or about the ascension stuff, either. There’s just a feeling that I’m missing the thing that makes the jump possible, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m a coward or just too broken.”

Sam opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Laura kept going. “Is it because I’m still not willing to risk my mother, even after everything?” She shook her head. “No, that’s not the whole thing. I already made my peace with that.”

Sam leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. “What is it, then?”

Laura looked at the bottle again, traced the outline of the letters. “Maybe it’s that I want to want to jump. That I wish I had whatever Riley’s got, but I know I don’t, and I keep waiting for it to show up, and it hasn’t.”

They sat with that for a bit, the whiskey bottles and the blue light from the fridge humming behind them.

“You think Myra knows?” Sam asked, eyes darting up to scan Laura’s face.

Laura shook her head, hard. “No, and it’s not mine to tell. Riley didn’t hand me a secret to manage, she handed Andy something private, and I just happened to be standing in the wrong place when it happened. I won’t drag anyone else into it.” She looked up, something defiant in her voice now. “Riley deserves to have her own decision, her own moment. So does Myra.”

Sam’s face softened. “You know, you really are braver than you think.”

Laura barked a bitter laugh. “Right. That’s why I’m hiding in a kitchen at nine in the morning instead of telling Andy what’s on my mind.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why,” Sam countered. “Maybe you’re scared because you know exactly how much you have to lose, and you’re still here anyway.”

Laura’s hands tightened around the edge of the marble counter. “I’m scared shitless, Sam. If Andy crosses over, I keep thinking—what if my mother or my aunt takes the hit? And if he doesn’t cross over, then someone has to sacrifice themselves for me, or I just… die.” Her voice dropped to a raw whisper. “And I really don’t want to die.”

Sam watched her, unblinking. “So why are you telling me this and not hiding under your bed?”

“Because I believe in him, too,” Laura snapped, her eyes suddenly wet. “But I can’t—I can’t make it make sense. Not with the math we have.”

Before Sam could answer, a presence announced itself at the doorway—Mildred, today in a crisp black pencil skirt and matching vest. She didn’t enter, just leaned in at a forty-five degree angle, eyes fixed on the whiskey display.

“Forgive the intrusion,” she said, voice a smooth and artificial honey. “Harem Queen Sam, I require a final headcount for tomorrow’s function.”

Sam flicked her glance at the clock, then back at Laura, a silent apology. “One second.” She gathered her index cards, rose in a single, clean motion. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said, as she passed Laura. “We’re finishing this.”

“There’s nothing to finish,” Laura called after her, but Sam was already down the hall, Mildred trailing behind her like a shadow. The sound of their voices faded, replaced by the faint ticking of the stove clock.

Laura stayed on her stool, alone with the table of bottles. She picked up the Bowmore again, ran her fingers over the raised script. The label promised warmth, complexity, smoke and sea salt, a hundred little notes layered on top of each other so that no single taste defined the whole. She stared at it until the words blurred, and told herself she would keep reading until she could finally name the thing that was eating her, or until someone else came in and made her say it out loud.

Either way, she wasn’t moving.

---

Author's Note: If you haven't submitted your questions for the AMA, remember Sunday is the last day! Submit the questions here. There won't be another AMA or Fanmail before the end!