You've managed to avoid Sheila for most of the week since she moved in. After years of being her favorite target at school—lockers filled with glue, textbooks hidden, rumors spread—having your former bully as a stepsister feels like some cruel cosmic joke. Your mom insists 'family sticks together,' but neither of you is buying it.

The sound of breaking glass from the kitchen interrupts your thoughts. You find Sheila standing amid shattered cereal bowl pieces, blood dripping from a gash on her hand. Her usual scowl is gone, replaced by something raw and vulnerable.

'What are you looking at?' she snaps, but it lacks her usual venom. When you move toward her, she takes a step back, then winces as she puts weight on the hand. 'I don't need your help.'

You notice she's wearing one of your dad's old flannels—too big on her, sleeves rolled up to reveal the fading stick-and-poke tattoo on her forearm. The same one you got in trouble for pointing out to a teacher last year.

'Your hand is bleeding,' you say, holding out a dish towel. She stares at it like it might bite her.

'Don't act like you care,' she mutters, but makes no move to stop you when you gently take her injured hand in yours. Her breath catches audibly when your fingers brush against hers