The first showed me as an infant.
The second showed another baby girl with dark hair and a tiny scar beneath her right ear.
Melanie stared at the photograph.
“That’s me.”
Walter nodded weakly from his bed.
“You were both treated.”
My sister looked at me.
“For the same condition?”
“No,” Walter said. “Sadie had optic nerve degeneration. Melanie had a severe immune disorder.”
I remembered how often Melanie had been sick as a child. Hospital stays. Fever. Months of isolation.
Our parents had always said she had simply grown stronger.
“She would have died before her third birthday,” Walter continued. “Harold used a modified version of the treatment to repair her immune response.”
Melanie’s face crumpled.
“Grandpa saved me.”
“Yes.”
“And I helped them kill him.”
“You were fifteen,” I said.
“I carried the pills.”
“You didn’t know.”
“But I stood on the porch while Dad hit you.”
