The first person to wake up after Rose was her sister, Sylvianne. Sylvianne, or Sylvie, was eighteen and home from college for spring break. It hadn't been a very good one so far.
"Would you like any coffee?" Sylvie asked me. I shook my head and Sylvie poured herself a glass and stirred in some sugar.
She sat next to me on the couch, looked me straight in the eye, and said, "You know, you're going to have to talk sometime."
I haven't spoken since my father died earlier this week. Most people say it's just how I'm choosing to grieve but that's not true. It's because I know something no one else does, and it's my fault he died.