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teased her about it very much.
    Stevie remembered, too, hundreds of times when she’d forgotten her schoolbooks and Alex had shared, saving her from the wrath of dozens of teachers.
    He’d done so many things for her and in return, what had she done for him? Stevie couldn’t think of a thing. Not one thing.
    She wanted to make a difference to him. If she could love him enough, be the sister he’d always hoped he’d had, do things the right way instead of the funny or clever way. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe Alex would get better.
    Stevie felt a new resolve coming to her. First of all, she wasn’t going to leave Alex—not for a minute if she didn’t have to. Sure, her parents would make her go to school, and she’d have to do some other things, but until Alex was better, she was going to spend every spare minute at the hospital. She’d give up riding, her friends, everything fun until he was well. She cared about Alex, and that was one way to show him. If she had strength and courage, she could share it with him. Those weren’t the same as antibiotics, but it was the best she could do, and she wanted to do it for Alex.
    Next, she wasn’t going to be a nuisance anymore—not to anybody. She’d get her homework done; she’d stop getting C’s and only get A’s; she’d stop making wisecracks; no more practical jokes; no more rude retorts; no more thoughtless, careless, heartless Stevie. She had a new and wonderful person inside her, andthat person was going to be a loving, kind, supportive sister to her beloved twin brother. Alex would get better. He’d have to get better. And when he did that, he’d find that he had a better sister, too, and she would never, ever again have a fight with him.
    As soon as the doctor said it was okay for her to be in Alex’s room, she’d be right by his bedside. She’d wipe his forehead with a cool cloth. She’d read to him. She’d make him his favorite marshmallow crunchies—the ones she never let him have any of when she made a batch with Lisa and Carole. Well, those days were gone. Alex was going to be her number-one concern from now on.
    Stevie sat upright. She had work to do—homework. She remembered that her English assignment for tomorrow was to write a brief essay about metaphors. She couldn’t do her math assignment or study for her history test without the textbooks, but she could write the essay as long as she had some paper.
    She fished in her pocket for some change and called home. Chad answered. She told him Alex was the same and asked if he would bring her school backpack to the hospital when he came after dinner. He agreed and promised they’d bring her a sandwich, too.
    “Don’t bother. I really can’t eat,” she said. “I just need to work a little bit, though.”
    Chad agreed, though he seemed a little confused, and Stevie wasn’t surprised. Usually, Stevie found the weakest possible excuses not to do her homework. Now that she actually had a real excuse, one that was a lot stronger than a recent one she’d used about having an ingrown toenail, she was choosing to work on her assignments.
    As soon as she hung up with Chad, Stevie went to the nurses’ station and asked if anybody had a pad of paper and a pencil she could borrow to do her homework. One of the nurses, a young woman whose name tag identified her as Beverly Earl, provided a yellow pad and a ballpoint pen.
    “Will this do?” she asked. “There are only about three sheets left on the pad. I hope that’s enough.”
    “Sure,” said Stevie. “I have to write an essay on everything I know about metaphors. Three sheets should do it.”
    The nurse smiled at her. “A scratch pad would do it for me on that subject,” she joked.
    Stevie smiled at her in recognition of a sort of common bond. That’s exactly what she might have said, too, before. Now she was sure she could come up with more than a scratch pad’s worth.
    She returned to the bench outside Alex’s room,peered in,