“So when did that change?”
“When Ethan got sick.” I stand up, because I really have to move, and I pace the length of the small table. “He was the most precious kid. Everyone adored him. My parents thought he hung the moon, and I didn’t mind, because I did, too.”
“You’re older?”
I nod. “By just under three years. And my favorite thing in the world was taking care of him. Playing mommy, you know? I’d feed him, change him, play with him. And when he got older, we were best friends.”
I wait for Jackson to ask me what happened, but he is calmly watching me, clearly letting me go at my own pace.
“About the time he was ten, he started getting into fights with the bigger kids at school. They were picking on him and—anyway, the reasons don’t matter. The point is that the bruises didn’t heal as fast as my mom expected. So she took him to the doctor.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“Nothing,” I say. “At least that’s what the pediatrician told us. So for a year, nothing happened. By the time my parents found out that it was an aggressive and rare blood disorder that attacks the organs, a lot of damage had already been done, and they said he’d probably only survive a few more years.”
“Oh, Syl.”
“It was horrible, and I was so scared, and suddenly he was getting weaker every day. I would wake up and it would be like he’d faded in the night.” I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to remember. “And it felt like we were just waiting for him to die.”
A shudder runs through me, and Jackson is on his feet in an instant, his arms tight around me. I burrow against him, letting his strength push back these horrible memories.
“But he’s alive,” Jackson says gently. “How did he get better?”
“Money.” My face is pressed against his chest, and the word is muffled. I force myself to lean back so that I can look up at him. “The doctors all said there was nothing we could do. The damage was done, and there was no cure, anyway. But my mom was relentless. She heard about an experimental drug—K-27—and she applied for the trials. They wouldn’t take him—I don’t know why. I think it was because he was too young, which is stupid because he was dying anyway.”
I force myself to stay on track. “My mom learned about a doctor in Central America. He was using K-27 to treat patients like my brother, along with some other drugs in a cocktail. And according to everything she learned, his patients were getting better. Like, completely better.”
“The damaged organs?”
“Repaired. Somehow this drug encouraged the growth of healthy tissue to replace the bad, necrotic spots.”
“She got your brother to this doctor,” Jackson says, continuing the story.
“Yes.”
“But it was expensive.”
I meet his eyes. His are sad, and it’s clear he has some idea where this story is heading. “Yes. Very. And my mom didn’t work. And my dad was just a technician for one of the studios. A cool job that paid well and had great Hollywood perks—but nowhere near the kind of money that he needed.”
“That’s where you came in.”
“He was asking everyone if they had extra work for him, and Reed used to do some of the on-set photography during shoots. Production photos, candids to use during press junkets, that kind of thing. He told my dad he did model shoots on the side. That he was looking to build up that end of the business. He’d seen me before—Dad took me to work with him a couple of times and got me on the set—and told Dad that he could use me.”
I push away from him, because I have to move. I can’t stand still and talk about this. Because it was the first step to horror. But it was also the first step to saving my brother.
I go to the window and look out, wishing that I didn’t have these memories. That I could just skip over the bad parts and be healed. But that’s not possible, and so I press on.