“Rose?” Alma’s voice dropped to a whisper she rarely used. “What are you doing?”
They didn’t fix each other. They didn’t have to. SI ROSE AT SI ALMA
Alma came home at midnight, her knuckles bruised, her smile too wide. She had punched a landlord who evicted a single mother from her class. “He deserved it,” she said, pressing ice to her hand. “Rose
Alma knelt. She didn’t take the scissors. She took Rose’s hands instead. Cold. Trembling. her knuckles bruised
For years, that was enough. Rose rooted Alma when she burned too bright. Alma set fire to Rose when she grew too still.
“You’re burning,” Rose replied. “And I’m tired of being the water.”
“You’re drowning,” Alma said. Not a question.