The Stories We Tell by Patti Callahan Henry

we’ve been in the paper twice in a week.” He rubs his hand along the scruff of his chin. “So you here to pick up Max’s part?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I say. “Glad you got it in so fast.”
    â€œYou’re lucky to have Max. Don’t know anyone who understands presses like he does. Better hold on to him.”
    â€œI’m planning on it,” I say, following Cameron through the crowded aisles to the back room.
    Willa follows and says, “Why was your street in the paper two times?”
    â€œOh, that homeless man they found.” Cameron reaches up and pulls down a small box and hands it to me.
    â€œWhat man?” I ask.
    â€œDon’t you read the papers?” His grin is lopsided and teasing.
    â€œI’ve been a little preoccupied,” I say. “Tell me.”
    Willa is still as a tree—Firm, rooted.
    â€œSome kids found this poor guy in the alley between two houses. You know the kind of skinny no-man’s-land where the houses are so close that you can barely walk between them? Like that, except he was squeezed into there. Like he’d gone to get out of the rain or something, which doesn’t make sense to me, because there wasn’t any cover. But anyways, he died in there and—”
    â€œHe died?” I envision this man stuck between buildings … dying. I shiver. “Poor guy. Did he die because he got stuck?
    â€œDon’t think so. Something about getting beat up,” Cameron says, walking out of the storage room when the front door rings, announcing an incoming customer. “Don’t know nothing about him except they took him away.” He stops and turns to me. “The saddest part is that no one knows who he is. In this world, how can someone not know? It’s terrible.” He shudders and moves on as he says, “Go on. I’ll put it on the tab.”
    I follow Cameron, and it isn’t until I reach the front door that I notice Willa isn’t with me. I walk back to the rear of the store and into the storage room, where I find her staring into space. “Willa!”
    She doesn’t startle, just slowly looks up at me, her gaze traveling in its sleepy-time way. “That is the most horrible story.” Tears glaze her eyes. “Some guy crawled between houses and died? Poor, poor man.” She covers her face; racking sobs rise from her throat. Her body shakes with the released force.
    I wrap my arms around my sister, pulling her close. Emotional lability, this is called. The neuro practitioner told me to expect these displays of “mood-incongruent” behavior. I was warned that Willa might laugh at something sad, or cry fiercely at something mild. The emotion might not match the circumstance. But being warned about a behavior and experiencing it are not the same thing. Besides, this doesn’t seem so incongruent as completely excessive. What did the practitioner say to do? I can’t remember. At the time, I didn’t believe I needed to know. My sister wouldn’t have this weird emotional reaction with the initials PBA, which stands for something I will never be able to pronounce. Now I don’t know what to do, or how to act. I hold her. “It’s okay,’ I say, as though she’s a child.
    â€œNo, it’s not okay.” She pulls from my embrace and rubs at her eyes, grimacing as she swipes the stitch. “It is just not okay.”
    â€œWhat can I do?” I ask, helpless.
    â€œI don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know … anything.”
    â€œLet’s get home,” I say. “Tea and macaroons. How does that sound?”
    She nods and turns, walking the wrong way, toward another closet.
    â€œThis way,” I say, pointing to the doorway.
    Willa stares at me; obvious frightened. “What if I stay this way?”
    â€œYou won’t,” I say, flinging these words at the universe in