I'm coming home, Cassie.

                  Hold on tight.

                  Two hours ago, I told Veah I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye to my sister first. Now, standing in front of the three-story, white-columned place I once called home, I can only hesitate. 

                  The sun is bright and flickering in the corner of my vision. The sky is endlessly blue, the kind of blue that makes me think of summer days in the backyard, when I would spray Cassie from head to toe in raspberry Kool-Aid.

                  My fingers tighten on the hem of my shirt.

                  Squinting up at the sun behind the mansion I once lived in, my thoughts drift. 

                  What if Cassie isn't home?

                  What if something goes wrong and Gavin comes outside?

                  What if . . . what if I see my mother again?

                  It will be the first time in two years, and I . . . I haven't forgiven her. How can I? She's my mom. She was supposed to choose me. She was supposed to pick me over him. 

                  Veah leans out of the car, gazing at from over the top of the car. "Kaya?"

                  "I'm going," I promise. "I just . . . needed a minute."

                  Quickly, I send a text to Cassie. TULIPS. TALK TO ME.

                  She'll know what it means—that summer, when I had no home, I would come by and visit her. Usually at around two in the morning, I'd sneak past the alarm systems and climb up to her room from the tulip vines. TALK TO ME was our code for Come outside. 

                  Cassie's text is swift.

                  NOT NOW. 

                  Not now? What the hell does that mean?

                  But I'm not giving in without a fight. I need to see her—I need to see if she's home. 

                  "I'll be right back," I promise Veah.

                  As I make my way over the pale, rose-coloured stone walkway, I step on a couple of peonies. Just for extra measure.

                  It occurs to me that maybe I shouldn't hide—maybe I should knock right on the door.

                  If I'm going to fake my death . . . 

                  If I'm going to fake my death, then this will be the last time my family sees me alive. Maybe they should live with this guilt, this last bitter taste.

                  And I would—I would, if it wasn't for Cassie.

                  I don't want to get her into trouble.

                  The job I have at the drag queen bar is definitely over now, thanks to my three-day absence. There's no money I can give my sister, not for a while. 

                  Distantly, the thought of Imai's contract comes to mind. His offer.

                  But as I duck beneath the hedges, creeping through the black fence with a passcode they still haven't changed, I think of that text. NOT NOW. 

                  Cassie never refuses to see me.

                  There has to be something wrong, but as I crouch beneath her window, I hear the faint and familiar chime of music: "They're so pretty it hurts, I'm not talking about boys, I'm talking about—"

                   I dig my fingers into the vines and climb.

                   "Cassie?" I whisper. Her window is open just a fraction. I tap lightly on the window. "Cassie? It's me."

                   Through the darkened glass, I see her dancing in front of the mirror. 

                   "They're so pretty with their button-up shirts. And, they're so pretty it hurts." 

                    She's singing badly—off-key, with her voice pitched low, like she doesn't want to be heard.

                    "Cassie?" I whisper again.

                    She turns around—startled. "Kaya? What are you doing here?"

                    "I'm . . . I told you I was outside."

                    "What? No you didn't."

                    "I just texted you!" I say, holding up my phone.

                     Her eyes dart back to the door, like she's worried someone will hear. "Come in," she says. "You haven't talked to me in so long . . . I was worried."

                    You haven't talked to me in so long . . . 

                    That can't be right. I texted her just the other day. I LOVE YOU. 

                    It hits me then, so suddenly I can't breathe.

                    "Where's your phone?" I whisper. 

                    Cassie's eyes widen—green, so much like mine. And then I realize that her hair is no longer fiery-red, like mine, but—pink.

                   "Gavin took away my phone last week," she says.

                   "You changed your hair."

                   Cassie becomes flushed, looking down. She pulls open the window, letting me climb through, and she says, "I . . . wanted a different look."

                   Her hair is still wet.

                   The room smells strongly—like bleach and dye.

                   "You just did this," I accuse. 

                   If there is one thing I know about Cassie, it is that she loves her hair. There was a time in our childhood when she was blonde, and she envied the bright, reddish curls I have. Eventually, her hair grew into its natural form: a lovely, vibrant ginger.

                   I love the pink hair on her, I do. But it's wrong, because I know she would have never done it if she hadn't had a choice.

                   "Gavin has your phone," I say suddenly. "You mean, you didn't get my messages?"

                   "What messages?"

                   "Shit," I mutter. "Shit. Shit. Why'd he take it away this time?"

                   "I left my dish in the sink," she says, glancing away.

                   "Fucker," I whisper.

                   "Listen, Kaya, you . . . you can't be here."

                   The text message: NOT NOW. 

                   Our stepfather must have sent that, but why? 

                   I inhale sharply. Does he know I'm here? 

                   No, there's no way. Our code, TALK TO ME, sounds more like we want to call each other. Not that I'm right outside.

                   It makes sense, if he has her phone. Obviously he can't pretend to be Cassie with his voice, but . . .

                   But why those words? Why NOT NOW? 

                   There's something off about it.

                   "You have to go," says Cassie urgently. "You can't be here right now. I . . ." She looks back at the door again. "You need to leave."

                   Veah told me not to tell anyone.

                   Veah made me swear I wouldn't tell my family.

                   Too dangerous. Too risky. But I can't let Cassie think I'm dead.

                   Kaya, promise me. 

                   Promise me you won't let anyone know.

                   It could ruin everything.

                   Promise me. Not even your sister. 

                   I had whispered, I promise. 

                   "I'm going to fake my death," I blurt out in a whisper.

                  Cassie blanches. "Kaya, that—that's not a funny joke—"

                  How do I explain the whirlwind of the last few days? How do I even begin to talk about the contract and the Yakuza and the Mafia boss waiting for me right outside?

                  I don't.

                  I only say, "I'm going to leave the country for a little bit. You'll probably get news that I'm dead, but it won't be true. I'll be back someday, just know . . . just know I'm not gone, okay? I'll come back for you. I swear it on Rusty."

                  Rusty—our dead goldfish.

                  "You swear it on Rusty?" There are tears in Cassie's eyes. "Kaya, is it dangerous? Did you get involved with . . . with bad stuff?"

                  My sweet, beautiful sixteen year old sister.

                  She's going to be a doctor one day. She's going to save lives. 

                  "Don't worry about me," I say, managing to sound confident. "I'll be alright. You just focus on work and stuff, okay?"

                  There is a knock on her door.

                  "You have to go," says Cassie. Her pale face is stained bright red with tears. She's an easy crier—something I love about her. "Please. Please, Kaya."

                  But I root myself onto the ground.

                 "Who the hell just knocked?"

                 Her voice is raw. "You just need to—to trust me."

                 "Cassie, if you're talking to another little fucking friend in there, I swear to God I'll bust down this fucking door."

                 "What does Gavin want?" I say in a low voice, but Cassie is already pushing me to the ground, motioning under the bed.

                 "I'm—I'm coming, Dad," Cassie says in a trembling voice. I see her tuck back strands of her pink hair, quickly smudging away the tears from her face. "I'll just open it. One sec."

                 "Why is the door locked?" Gavin snarls. "We've already had this fucking conversation. Your door should never even be closed."

                 "But . . . when I change . . ."

                 "Especially not when you change," he growls.

                 My stomach lurches, and I hear the door click open.

                 From under the bed, I see my stepfather's footsteps as he meets Cassie. Too close for comfort. My heart is pounding so fast I can barely hear, but I see it when his large, callused hands drifts to her chest.

                 I see the realization stab him.

                 "Your hair," he says in a stony voice.

                 Gavin never liked me—no, my stepfather hated me with every fiber of his being. But Cassie . . . he always had a soft spot for sweet Cassie. I just never imagined, I never thought—

                 "I—I like it," says Cassie. It sounds like she is holding back tears.

                 "Why the fuck would you ruin it?"

                 And then . . . then, I am reminded of two years ago. Gavin had a strange, unnatural obsession with my mother's ginger hair. But I imagine now that she's older, it's lost some of its fire. 

                 I understand, Cassie, I think. I know why you did it. 

                 He loved her red hair, so she dyed it.

                 I notice as Gavin's touch gets rougher. He pushes her against her dresser, and the little lipstick tubes and compact mirrors and hairbrushes rattle. 

                 "I thought you—you said we would wait until marriage," Cassie says, her voice getting higher. "Right, Gavin?"

                  "It's Dad," he snaps, and I notice he is slurring.

                  Once, when I was eighteen and afraid, I wouldn't have rolled out from underneath this bed. I wouldn't have made a noise; I would have been shocked, terrified to the bone, and my reaction would have been slow.

                  But now I slide out from underneath Cassie's blue-quilted bed. I still have the gun Veah gave me to fight off the Yakuza men two days ago.

                  I have no idea how to shoot a gun.

                 But I aim it at my stepfather anyway.

                 "Step away from her," I say fiercely. My hand is shaking. "Leave her alone."

                 "Kaya, no,"  Cassie cries.

                 This isn't like me at all. I'm not a fighter—far from it. I'd consider myself more of an intellect, actually. Books, code, puzzles.

                  Genius and idiot, two for one ideal, Tommy always told me.

                  I'd consider this one an idiot move.

                  "Get away from her!" I say, my voice rising, when Gavin doesn't move.

                  And then he smiles. "Look at you," he slurs. "Kaya. Pretty thing. Guess you're still a lesbian, aren't you? Shame."

                  "You'd have never had a chance anyway," I snap. "Get away from her." 

                  "Alright, alright," he says, raising his hands. Mocking. "What are you going to do now? Are you going to shoot me, in my own fucking house? I'll snap your neck, little girl, I swear to God I'll snap your pretty little neck."

                 "No, Dad, please," Cassie sobs.

                 "Cassie, walk out the door," I say.

                 Two seconds. I make a choice.

                 "You're going to let us leave," I whisper. "Or you're going to have the Mafia to answer to."

                 The blood drains from Cassie's face. 

                 But Gavin only sneers. "You? Involved with the Mafia? You're a pussy, little girl. And you're bluffing."

                 There is one thing I learned from Veah.

                 I unclick the safety of the gun. "Maybe I am bluffing," I breathe. "But do you want to see what I've learned?"

                 This time, he is silent.

                 Cassie backs away into the hallway, and I follow.

                 A door opens at the end of the corridor—the bathroom. My mother comes out, wrapped snugly in a white towel, her face damp and pink from a shower.

                 When she sees us—my gun pointed at Gavin, ushering Cassie down the stairs—her mouth drops open. She freezes.

                 In that moment, I think of all the things I could say to her.

                 You're a terrible mother.

                 How could you?

                 You chose him over me. 

                 But I don't say any of it. I only give her one last searing look, and I follow Cassie out the door. 

                 "Start the engine!" I call out to Veah, as we sprint across the law.

                 Her eyes flicker—I can't tell what she's thinking.

                 But then I hear Gavin roaring from the porch behind us, and I hear the unmistakable sound of a rifle assembling.

                 "Go! Go! Go!" I shout, throwing myself into the passenger seat.

                 Cassie climbs into the back, and Veah jerks the car forward. 

                 "What the hell was that?" Cassie gasps. "Did you just . . . Kaya, did you just threaten to shoot our stepfather?" 

                  "Has he been doing that to you this whole time?" I spit out. "And you never told me?"

                  "How could I?" Cassie cries. "You're already sending me money for med school, and I know how much it's costing you! How much more would a place to stay be while I finish high school here?"

                   "I don't care how much it would have costed! I care about you! And he was touching you, Cassie, you should have told me—"

                   The car slams to a stop.

                   Veah's eyes are dark and full of fury as she says, "He did what to her?"

                   Danger. There is something fatal, lethal to the way she gets out of the car in one fluid motion. She tosses me the keys. 

                  "Get ready to drive, Kaya," she tells me, and then she is striding back down the street. Breaking into a jog.

                  Cassie leans through the gap between the passenger seat and the driver seat. She says, "Who is that? And what is she going to do?"

                  "I don't know."

                  It doesn't take more than one minute to find out.

                  I hear the crack of a gunshot down the block. The sound of a man screaming.

                  In the rearview mirror, I see Veah running back.

                  "Quick!" Cassie says. "Didn't she say to get ready to drive?"

                 "Shit," I say, fumbling to unbuckle my seat belt and crawling into the driver's seat. "Shit. Shit. Shit." 

                 Veah opens the car door, breathing hard, and says, "You said you wanted to drive? Drive."

                 I slam down on the gas pedal.

                "Feel free to go over the speed limit," Veah adds. "There are going to be cops chasing us at any moment, and you probably wouldn't want to add breaking out of prison to your list of crimes."

                 "Someone please tell me what's going on!" Cassie says, as my grip on the steering wheel turns white-knuckled.

                 "Which one of us?" I ask, making sure I'm not about to run anyone over.

                Cassie throws her hands in the air. "Anyone!" 

                Veah says, "Where should I start?"

                "With whatever you just did to our stepdad!"

                "I broke his arm." Calm. Casual.

                "And the gunshot?"

                "He fired at me. I crushed the bones in his right hand. Now he'll be lucky to pick up a spoon, much less shoot a gun."

                 Breathless, Cassie says something that surprises me—she says, "Good."

                 "Um, where am I driving us to, exactly?" I say, as we weave through downtown Louisiana traffic.

               "Small detour," says Veah. "New Orleans."

               "New Orleans? What the hell is in New Orleans?"

                Veah's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. 

                Storm and slate. Danger—there is pure, calculating danger there.

               "The Underground," Veah says. "I'm assuming you've heard of it?"

>>>

Well, that was a wonderful little visit home.

Do your family reunions end with rifles and broken bone?

From the moon and back,
Sarai