Sleep dispersed to the birdsong that serenaded dawn. Winona stretched, momentarily disturbing Keesog who was cuddled up beside her. Shucking off her comforter, she padded to the window. Witnessing sunrises was a ritual that only she continued to partake in, in the Silverheel household. She never liked the sun later in the day; the heavy sunshine was druglike, making her lethargic and slow. But the sun of daybreak, the one that painted the clouds in a sublime jaspé of peachy-pinks and rosy-reds, she could love.

If only it stayed that way.

After cleaning up and making her bed, Winona set down breakfast for the dogs first and then got to cooking for the other members. She'd just finished setting the table by the time Donovan emerged from his quarters, ready for work. He shoveled the toast and eggs in a hurry as he always did, dropped a little kiss on Winona's forehead, and was off trailing sawdust from his workboots behind him.

Since her shift started after noon, Winona had time to straighten up around the house and make some progress on her painting. But before that, her hair needed care. She undid and redid her braid, combing out the tangles, smoothing out the waves that reached the small of her back. A strip of leather held the end of the braid together with fallen feathers from a northern harrier and five bone beads, one for each member of her family. Then she fixed her easel and mounted her current project – an image of a Seneca scout releasing a bald eagle to the skies. Winona was dangling between naming it either Brother Eagle or Taking Flight, but she wasn't too concerned about it. A consultation with her father and sister would sort that.

At half-past ten, the postman dropped by. Wiping her hands on her apron, she went to collect their post. One very scarlet, very ornate envelop caught her eye. Addressed to Meda, it was from the Institute of Chicago. Deeming that it was important, Winona knocked on her door. She got no answer, so she opened the door a crack and peeked to find that Meda was still asleep.

Winona let herself in and settling down on the edge of the bed, she gently shook her sister awake. "Meda," she called, low and soft, "Meda, wake up. There's mail for you."

"What?" Meda sat up, rubbing her eyes groggily; Winona handed her the envelop in response. As soon as she registered who the sender was, she was wide awake. She ripped open the top of the envelop, nearly tearing a part of the letter out in her excitement. After she scanned it, she whispered, "oh my god."

"What is it?" Winona reached for the letter. "Let me see."

Meda snatched it away. "Wait!" She reread it, then exclaimed, "oh my god! I made it. I made it into the School of Arts." She launched herself at Winona, grabbing her in an exuberant hug. "I join this July! I made it, I made it!"

Winona hugged her back. "That's wonderful! I'm so proud of you!"

When they separated, Meda let out a victorious whoop. "I can't wait for summer!"

Winona couldn't help the giggle that bubbled forth. "But you hate summer."

"Not this year," her younger sister told her, eyes sparkling like amethysts under firelight. "This year I'm finally getting out of Andover. There's nothing to keep me here anymore."

Hurt prickled at Winona's heart, inexplicable but persistent. "Really," she said, her voice flat, "nothing? Are you even sure you wanna move all the way to Chicago?"

"What, I'm not moving forever. I'll still come visit you guys..."

"Considering that there's nothing keeping you here," said Winona resentfully, "I wasn't sure you were going to."

"I didn't mean it like that..." Meda seemed taken aback. "I—where's this coming from? Are you mad at me?"

Winona sighed. "I'm not mad." Ensuring her tone was level, she added, "I'm just wondering if you know what you're doing. It's tough out there, especially for artists. And if you don't make it... well, let's just say we can't afford that."

"You think I won't make it?"

As soon as Winona heard that, she wished she could take her words back. "No... it's not you, it's the world. It's harsh as fuck. I dropped out of art school, and it was only community college. You're talking Ivy League. It's gonna be brutal," she tried to clarify. "Even with all the sacrifices we make to get you through financially, if you don't make it, we'll be ruined."

"Nobody asked you to sacrifice anything for me," said Meda coldly.

"Nobody had to," Winona responded, now equally icy, "I just know the difference between bloated daydreams and realistic life goals, and how to pick one that's best for all of us."

"Well, I'm sorry my aspirations are such a burden on you!" spat Meda. "But you know what, you can keep your unsolicited financial aid. I'll fill out a scholarship application and I will qualify for it."

"Sure, okay. What about accommodation? Food, water, electricity?" Winona shot back, standing up. "All the grand, Ivy League quality art projects they ask of you? Think there's a scholarship for that?"

"I'll get a job. Two, if I have to."

"Oh, great! So, alongside classes, assignments, projects, internships, exams, you think you can handle two jobs. Easy-peasy, right?" Winona scoffed, incredulous. "Don't be daft."

Meda's next statement was laced with spite. "If I'd known my family thought my bloated daydreams would lead to financial ruin, I'd have stopped dreaming ages ago."

Exasperation finally got the better of Winona. "You know what, I'm done here. I'll talk to you when you've matured." With that, she stalked out of the room, frustration bristling inside her.

Behind her, Meda shouted, "just because you didn't make it in art school doesn't mean I won't either. I'm not you, Winona!" She slammed the door, sending a little tremor through the small wood cabin.

Unable to share the same space as her asinine sister anymore, Winona grabbed her sweater and Converses from her room, plucked her keys from the key-hanger beside the front door, and went around to the backyard to get her bicycle. With Meshuggah raging in her earphones, she pedaled hard and fast. This trail was her constant ever since she mastered riding a bike – she remembered every root, every mound or boulder, every creek, every low-hanging branch that fell in her way, and she flew over them with about as much effort as it took for her to breathe. In less than her usual forty-minute commute, Winona was speeding down the main thoroughfare of the town. There was still an hour before her employer let her touch any equipment at the studio, so she took a detour on Haverhill Street in the direction of Silva's Supermarket.

Skidding to a halt on the sidewalk in front of the bodega, she chained her bike to a lamppost and went inside. Rorio looked up from his place behind the counter. "Oh, who's annoyed you now?" he questioned almost immediately.

"It's Meda," replied Winona, leaning her hip against the bill-desk. "She's behaving like a child."

"Well, she is a child," he told her matter-of-factly.

"She'll be eighteen soon, Rorio," Winona complained, then straightened. "I'll deal with her later. Right now, I need some lunch before I get to work."

"Alright, then. Go easy on her. And Amir just stocked fresh falafels in the grab-and-go section. Help yourself."

"Yeah, okay," Winona said over her back, already making her way to get ahold of Amir's famous falafels.

Acquiring a plate, she handed over the payment to Amir and went to the back of the bodega to where the refrigerators were for something to drink. As she popped a falafel in her mouth, chewing slowly to relish each flavorful crunch, sounds piqued her ears. Someone was frantically speaking – demanding. Then the volumes rose, and she caught one sentence very, very clearly: "put the money in the bag or I'll shoot you and do it myself."

Winona could hear Rorio respond but couldn't decipher what he'd said. She set her plate on a shelf closest to her, then steadily wended a way betwixt the maze of shelves. She made sure her weight fell on the balls of her feet, her movements soundless as a ghost, her focus narrowing on the area where the sounds were coming from. Rounding the last corner, she came up on the bill-desk where a hooded assailant had a handgun aimed at Rorio's face. Somehow made aware of her presence, the man whirled on her, but Winona was ready.

She struck viperlike; one of her hands grabbed the barrel of his gun and moved the line of fire away from herself by turning his hand down. She drove forward and to the ground until his hand, still gripping the gun, was pressed against his own hip. Presently close enough, she brought up her other fist and punched him in the face first, then as his head snapped back, she went for his Adam's apple second. Choking and coughing, he pitched to his knees and Winona twisted the gun just enough to break his index finger stuck in the trigger – the weapon slipped free of his grip. He would be screaming if not for his traumatized throat. She was upon him in seconds, one knee on the small of his back, the other pinning down his right arm, while her free hand had his left arm twisted behind his back, palm up.

"Nicely done." Winona lifted her gaze to see Rorio peering over the counter, trainer's criticism apparent in his expression. "But sloppy disarming technique. He could've shot you in the foot."

"Sorry."

Rorio gestured for her to hand over the weapon; she complied. While law enforcement was summoned, Winona kept the man incapacitated. He only struggled once, but his feeble attempt struck her with how pathetic he was. Short, stocky, with a shock of blond hair, and blue eyes wild with panic, he was just...

"So fucking pathetic," she purred, bent close to his face. "You have a gun, but you have no balls to shoot." In that moment, in the bloodrush, something stirred within. It started out as a fluttering of excitable nerves, then became something unbridled and so malicious, so consuming – it made her contort his hand against his synovial joint. He writhed under her, wailing, and the sound caressed her ears like forbidden music, a viciously enjoyable furore. "Mmm, what use is a good hand if it can't pull the trigger?"

She heard his wrist pop. Just another little turn and she was sure she would hear the crack – she needed to hear it, to feel the sharp cadence compliment the crescendo of her body. However, her ministration halted when three cops encircled them. "Ma'am!" called one to Winona, "ma'am, put your hands over your head and step away from him. We've got this."

With disappointment that also surprised her, Winona obeyed and moved out of their way, albeit a little reluctantly.

Through the rest of the day, all she could think about was the rapture.