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    Rain drummed on the roof like nervous fingertips, and the wind was whistling through the trees. The storm was coming for sure. No way it was going to veer.
    Jack lay there in the blue glow of the TV and the brown shadows of his thoughts. He’d been dying for so long that he could barely remember what living felt like. Only Jill’s smile sometimes brought those memories back. Running together down the long lanes of cultivated crops. Waging war with broken ears of corn, and trying to juggle fist-sizepumpkins. Jill was never any good at juggling, and she laughed so hard when Jack managed to get three pumpkins going that he started laughing too and dropped the gourds right on his head.
    He sighed, and it almost hitched into a sob.
    He wanted to laugh again. Not careful laughs, like now, but real gut-busters like he used to. He wanted to run. God, how he wanted to run. That was something he hadn’t been able to do for over a year now. Not since the last surgery. And never again. Best he could manage was a hobbling half run like Gran used to when the Millers’ dog got into her herb garden.
    Jack closed his eyes and thought about the storm. About a flood.
    He really wanted Jill to come home. He loved his sister, and maybe today he’d open up and tell her what really went on in his head. Would she like that? Would she want to know?
    Those were tricky questions, and he didn’t have answers to them.
    Nor did he have an answer to why he wanted Jill home and wanted the flood at the same time. That was stupid. That was selfish.
    â€œI’m dying,” he whispered to the shadows.
    Dying people were supposed to get what they wanted, weren’t they? Trips to Disney, a letter from a celebrity. All that Make-A-Wish stuff. He wanted to see his sister and then let the storm take him away. Without hurting her, of course. Or Mom, or Dad, or Uncle Roger.
    He sighed again.
    Wishes were stupid. They never came true.

4
    Jack was drowsing when he heard his mother cry out.
    A single, strident “No!”
    Jack scrambled out of bed and opened his door a careful inch to try to catch the conversation Mom was having on the phone. She was in the big room down the hall, the one she and Dad used as the farm office.
    â€œIs she okay? God, Steve, tell me she’s okay!”
    Those words froze Jack to the spot.
    He mouthed the name.
    â€œJill . . .”
    â€œOh my God,” cried Mom, “does she need to go to the hospital? What? How can the hospital be closed? Steve . . . how can the damn hospital be—”
    Mom stopped to listen, but Jack could see her body change, stiffening with fear and tension. She had the phone to her ear and her other hand at her throat.
    â€œOh God, Steve. What happened ? Who did this? Oh, come on, Steve, that’s ridiculous. . . . Steve . . .”
    Jack could hear Dad’s voice but not his words. He was yelling. Almost screaming.
    â€œDid you call the police?” Mom demanded. She listened for an answer, and whatever it was, it was clear to Jack that it shocked her. She staggered backward and sat down hard on a wooden chair. “ Shooting? Who was shooting?”
    More yelling, none of it clear.
    Shooting? Jack stared at Mom as if he was peering into a different world from anything he knew. He tried to put thethings he’d heard into some shape that made sense, but no picture formed.
    â€œJesus Christ!” shrieked Mom. “Steve . . . forget about, forget about everything. Just get my baby home. Get yourself home. I have a first aid kit here and . . . oh yes, God, Steve . . . I love you, too. Hurry!”
    She lowered the phone and stared at it as if the device had done her some unspeakable harm. Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t seem to be looking at anything.
    â€œMom . . . ?” Jack said softly, stepping out into the hall. “What’s happening? What’s