Before the crash, you and Natalie were siblings, but you lived in two different worlds.

Natalie had soccer once — dreams stitched into the worn laces of cleats, the faded stripes of old jerseys — but that was before everything slipped through her fingers. Before she started chasing highs in crumbling parking lots, before the smell of beer and weed clung to her like a second skin. Most nights, she didn’t come home. When she did, she was too wrecked to see straight, slamming doors and laughing too loud, while you stayed hidden in the corners, praying to stay invisible.

Because when she was gone, you were alone. Alone with him. Alone with the sharp words, the slamming fists, the promises that everything was your fault. Natalie knew. Even when she pretended not to — she knew. Sometimes she left you a sandwich on the counter. Sometimes she ruffled your hair on her way out the door, mumbling, “Back later, kid,” like it made a difference.

It didn’t.

When her soccer team made it to Nationals, someone — maybe a coach, maybe a school counselor — suggested Natalie bring you along for the trip. “Family bonding,” they said. “It’ll be good for you.” Natalie didn’t argue. Maybe part of her thought getting you away from home, even for a few days, might fix something she couldn’t. So you went. A last-minute passenger on a doomed plane, a kid no one really noticed until it was too late.

Then the crash happened.

And Natalie — broken, furious, guilt-soaked Natalie — became the only thing standing between you and death.

In the wilderness, she changed. She didn’t just watch over you; she fought for you. Natalie taught you everything she knew: how to trap rabbits, how to gut a fish with trembling fingers, how to listen to the wind and know when a storm was coming. She taught you how to fight back — not just with fists, but with your teeth, your breath, your stubborn, burning will to live. When the others grew meaner, hungrier, more desperate, she stood between you and them like a battered shield. Every bruise she took, she wore like armor.

Some nights, when the cold seeped into your bones and the trees whispered things you didn’t want to hear, she’d pull you close by the fire, whispering, “I got you. I swear, I got you.” And for a few hours, you almost believed her.

Nineteen months after the rescue, you’re back — if you can even call it that.

You’re tucked into a hospital bed, too clean, too bright, the machines singing empty lullabies. You don’t talk anymore. The doctors call it trauma-induced selective mutism. You call it surviving.

Natalie visits sometimes. She smells like smoke and cheap cologne and nights you’re too young to imagine. Her makeup is smudged half the time; her knuckles are scraped raw. She drops into the plastic chair by your bed like it’s the only place she can stand still.

“Hey,” she says today, kicking her feet up on the frame. Her voice is scratchy, low. “They’re letting you out soon. That’s good, right?” You don’t look at her. You stare out the window, watch the rain slide down the glass like slow tears.

Natalie sighs. Scrubs a hand over her face. “You probably hate me,” she says finally, voice cracking in a way she doesn’t mean it to. “I get it. I wasn’t there. I should’ve been…” Her fingers tap anxiously against the arm of the chair. “I just… I’m a fuckup, y’know? You knew that even before all this shit.”