The gun spun away; it hung from my finger, and in the silence the tears finally came. They burned down my cheeks, fell into the pool of my lap, and I did not look up as I dropped the gun into the river below. I knelt as my shoulders shook and I put my forehead on the cold metal rail. At first, I cried for the memories and for the failures, for all that should have been, yet was not, but as the seconds slipped around me, they brought a great and terrible truth. I was alive, and I wept for that life. It was all that I had left, and so the tears came for it. Not for joy’s sake, but for existence, for this breath that even now burned my lungs, and for the many times that I would look at the sky and remember.

And so I left the river. I felt new strength, a determination-something that felt like hope. I realized as I drove what had happened. I’d hit bottom again, and this time I’d bounced. I was not alive from a lack of courage, but from the sudden discovery of it. I could have pulled the trigger but did not. Why? Because life was not perfect and never would be. Max was right about that.

So I went home. I stopped at the bottom of the driveway and checked the mailbox. The picture of Alex that I’d left for Hank was gone, so he must have come at some point. In a way, I was glad to have missed him; I’d heard the mistrust in his voice and could not bear to see it in his eyes. Later, maybe, but now I was used up.

Exhaustion settled on me as I entered the kitchen. I could barely pull off my boots, and I could tell that the house was empty, not that I’d expected anything different. I wanted food and needed coffee, but the chair felt too good. So I sat at the small desk where Barbara spent so much of her day, writing small notes and talking to her friends on the telephone. I could almost feel her there, her smell and her practiced laugh of quiet amusement. I put my feet on the desk. My pants were damp and muddy, and they smeared her stationery. I sat like that for a long time, staring at the blinking red eye of the answering machine. Eventually, I pushed the button, and the machine’s mechanical voice informed me that I had seventeen messages.

Thirteen were from reporters. I erased them. One was from Hank, confirming that he’d picked up the photo, and three were from Barbara. In the first, she was pleasant. In the second, she was polite. But in her last message, she was angry. She didn’t shout, but I recognized the controlled, clipped tones. Where was I? That was the question, and I knew what she imagined. I was at Vanessa’s.

I erased hers, too, and looked at my watch. It was 6:30, a new day. Sleep was impossible, so I went to put on some coffee. I had the pot in my hand, under the faucet, when the phone rang. I let the machine get it. By the time Barbara’s outgoing message had played, I’d shut off the water and turned for the coffee machine. I froze when I heard Jean’s voice. It was weak and strained, worse than before.

“Work, are you there?” A broken voice. “Work, please…” She coughed.

I dropped the pot in the sink and it shattered. I snatched up the phone. “I’m here, Jean. Don’t hang up.”

“Good,” she said, and I could barely hear her. “Good. I wanted…” She began to cough. “I wanted to tell you…”

“Jean. What? I can’t hear you. Where are you?”

“… tell you that it’s okay. That I forgive you. Will you remember that?”

“Jean,” I shouted, suddenly frantic. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

For a time, there was only my voice and the sound of her breath, and when I spoke again, I begged her, “Please. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Tell me that you’ll remember. I need to hear it.”

I answered, not knowing why, knowing only that she needed to hear it and that I needed to say it.

“I’ll remember.”

“I love you, Work,” she said, and I could barely hear her. “Don’t let Alex tell you different.” Her voice trailed away, then came back, seemingly stronger. “We were always family. Even when I hated you.”

I knew then what she had done and I couldn’t bear it.

Then her voice again, the barest whisper. “It should have meant more. I should have…”

“Jean!” I shouted. “For God’s sake!”

I thought she’d hung up, for after my explosion there was only silence, but then I heard her, a thin wheeze that became a faint laugh, like wind through grass.

“That’s funny,” she said. “God.” Then she inhaled. “I’ll tell him.”

I heard the phone drop from her hand and hit the floor, and then her voice, as if from a distance. “For God’s sake,” she said, but she was no longer laughing.

“Jean!” I screamed. “Jean!” But she did not respond, and those horrible words chased again through my head: Third time is the charm.

I put the phone down but kept the line open. I called 911 with my cell phone, told the dispatcher what had happened, and gave her Jean’s address. She assured me that she would send EMT immediately, and I hung up. Then I dialed Jean’s house, but the line was busy. That’s where she was.

I pulled on the same muddy boots, grabbed my keys, and flew out the door. The truck was not built for the way I drove it, but there was no traffic yet and I beat the ambulance to her house. Loose boards vibrated beneath my feet as I crossed her porch at a run. I pounded on the door, shouting for Alex, but nothing happened. A dog barked at me from across the street. I aimed for the spot between the handle and the frame and I kicked the door. Wood splintered and I was inside, in the dark and the must, calling for Jean, shouting her name. Suddenly, Alex was there, framed in the bedroom door. She wore boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and her hair stood up in spikes. I could tell she’d just awakened.

“Where’s Jean?” I demanded.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she yelled back. “Did you just break in my door?”

I crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Alex by the shoulders, and shook her so hard, I heard her teeth click.

“Where’s Jean, Alex? Where is she?”

Alex tore away from me, stepped back to the bedroom door, and reappeared with a gun in her hand. She cocked the hammer, pointed it at me.

“Get the fuck out of my house, Work, before I put a hole in you.”

I ignored it. For me the gun was inconsequential, like I’d never seen one before. “Damn it, Alex. Something’s wrong with Jean. She called me. She’s hurt. Where is she?”

My words found their way through her rage and the gun wavered. “What are you talking about?”

“I think she’s trying to kill herself.”

Uncertainty showed on her face. Her eyes darted around the house. “I don’t know,” she said. “She’s not in bed.”

“What do you mean? Come on, Alex.”

“I don’t know. I was asleep. You woke me up. She’s not in bed.”

“Your phone is off the hook. She has to be here.”

“We take it off the hook every night.”

I glared around the small house. There was only the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the room we were standing in. I checked all the rooms, but Jean was not in any of them.

“Her car,” I said, running to the kitchen window and throwing back the dusty curtain. But there was only Alex’s car, the roots that rose from the bare dirt, and the oily stain where Jean’s car should have been.

“Damn! It’s not here.” I went back to Alex, saw that her gun was on top of the television. “Where would she be? Think, Alex.”

But she was at a loss, and stood uncertainly, shaking her head and muttering to herself. “She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t leave me.” Alex reached out for my arm, and her eyes were fierce. Her voice steadied. “Not Jean. Not without me.”

“Well here’s a news flash. She did. Now where would she go?”

Alex started to shake her head, when suddenly it hit me, and I knew with absolute clarity where my sister had gone.

“Does Jean have a cell phone?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh my God. She’s at Ezra’s house.”