He understood it now, watching her watch the cruiser.

In every pair of twins there is often one who orients toward the other, who appoints herself, without anyone asking, the keeper — and in this pair it was Junia, and it had probably been Junia since before either of them could walk.

Livia was the one who felt things and Junia was the one who did something about them.

When the house turned dangerous, they had not each faced it alone; they had faced it the way they faced everything, as a unit, with Junia out front.

She had not hidden that syringe and crossed that rain to save an abstract sister.

She had done it for the specific person who had shared every room and every fear of her short life, the other half of the only safe thing either of them had ever reliably had, which was each other.