The voice belongs

to a kitchen girl armed

with a fire iron

and a ferocious gaze.

Your sister, she said.

Your sister has come.

But that must mean—

I push past the girl

and find behind her

folded into almost nothing

my sister. Alive. Helene.

She doesn’t want to be touched,

the girl insists.

Helene, I’m here.

She’s silent

and still as stone.

I clutch my sister

to my breast,

feel her heart race

in time with mine.

The girl hovers,

grip still fierce

on her makeshift weapon.

I’m here, love.

I cannot say

it will be all right.

It won’t.