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Rhonda had once climbed a mango tree in the rainy season just to feel the thunder closer.
It was one of the few things she could remember clearly—her mother’s voice calling up from the porch, all laughter and warning, her hands planted firmly on her hips. The storm had cracked open above their Zambian village like a grin, wind dancing through the trees like it knew their names. Rhonda had gotten in trouble, sure. But even at six, she’d known what she was doing.
“You don’t run from storms,” she’d told her father that night, wrapped in a towel and sipping hot ginger tea. “You sit in them until they know you’re not afraid.”
She thought about that now, standing outside Constance Contraire’s bedroom door, a storm brewing behind it.
It started with crying every night.
They've gotten to know Constance’s usual theatrics in the first week she stayed in the house, but this was different—no shouting, no grand declarations about the futility of bedtime or the injustice of steamed vegetables. This was the quiet kind. Hiccups. Shallow breaths. The kind of crying a person does when they are trying very hard not to be heard.
It had been five nights since Mr. Benedict's departure, marking the longest period of separation from his newly adopted daughter since her arrival. Milligan had taken Mr. Benedict on a secure mission; something involving a recovered cipher and a threat that Rhonda and Number Two were very interested in. But Mr. Benedict, ever calm and maddeningly serene, had waved off their questions with a gentle smile and told them not to worry. He hadn’t told them the details, not because they couldn’t understand, but because he knew they’d want to help. And if they knew too much, they might have found a way to go.
They’d argued over it—Pencilla most of all. (“Absolutely not, you are a narcoleptic genius with zero field training, and I say this with love—you’re not going alone.”) But Milligan had promised safety, and Mr. Benedict had promised a short absence, and they had promised Constance they would all be fine.
She hadn’t believed them.
Constance didn’t say goodbye. She hadn’t hugged him or waved from the porch. She’d stood on the stairs with her arms crossed, fury burning behind her eyes, and had simply refused to speak.
Rhonda had tried to soften the blow. So had Number Two. They’d gone to the park. Read books out loud and let Constance pretend she wasn’t listening. Baked cookies and fed ducks, and even let her test the chemical effects of baking soda and vinegar directly on the living room floor. It didn't work.
Apparently, for a girl who had once been left behind too many times, “I’ll be back soon” was never quite enough.
“I wasn’t even asked if he could go,” she’d snapped when Rhonda tried to reassure her.
“That’s not how this works, sweetheart,” Rhonda had said, patient but firm. “He’ll be back. He always comes back.”
But that hadn’t helped. By the third day, Constance had stopped pretending she was mad. She was just… tired. Sharp around the edges and easy to tip. On the fourth day, she hadn’t spoken at all, unless you count her grunting when a bit of syrup from her pancakes made her tiny fingers sticky.
Dinner on the fifth night had gone poorly.
“You’re not him!” she’d screamed at Number Two, who’d suggested eating something other than jellybeans and toast. “You’re not-you're not even close! You’re just a redheaded rule-brain who acts like she knows everything, but you don’t know anything about me! I don't want you!”
Then she’d turned to Rhonda.
“And you! You pretend like nothing ever hurts. Like you don’t even miss anything. At least he listens to me! At least he understands me!”
She had slammed the door to her bedroom before either of them could say a word. A picture in the hallway tilted due to the force, and the echo of the slam reverberated through the air. Rhonda stayed still, her hand tightening around her mug of chamomile tea until it warmed her knuckles. Her heart was steady. But it ached.
“She didn’t mean it,” Pencilla said, brushing a crushed lentil chip off her sweater.
“I know,” Rhonda answered, her voice quieter than usual.
They had both dealt with worse, but this still felt like a failure. And it hurt more knowing they couldn’t always help her.
Then the crying started again.
They hadn’t really talked about how to do this part.
Constance had been living with them for roughly two months, and they had made a concerted effort to learn the best ways to care for a toddler since the very first night she arrived at their home. But Constance Contraire wasn't a regular toddler. So, despite their best efforts, there were no calming routines yet. No lullabies. No cuddles or teddy bears. Just a child too smart for her own age, and who didn’t quite believe people could care for her.
Even though Rhonda moved to Stonetown when she was just a child, she still held on to the memories of what it felt like to be comforted during her youth. She remembered her grandmother’s lap, her mother’s soft hands, her father’s songs in the dark when the rain got too loud. That kind of love was embedded in her bones and shaped her spine. Made her steady.
But Constance hadn’t had any of that. Not really. And sometimes it felt like trying to comfort her was like trying to hold a wild creature still—something that wanted to trust you, but didn’t know how to sit still long enough to feel safe.
Rhonda paused at Constance’s door, and out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Number Two standing still in the dim hallway light, arms crossed tightly, and her expression tense yet somber. But after a moment, soft footsteps approached. They stood side by side without speaking, the silence between them coiled and humming. Rhonda flexed her fingers once, grounding herself, and then knocked.
“Go away,” came the tiny voice. Muffled. Wobbly.
“It’s just us.”
No answer.
Rhonda knocked again lightly. “Connie-bean?”
She tried the knob—it wasn’t locked. Thankfully, Constance didn’t lock doors anymore. She just closed them with the force of a small hurricane.
Rhonda and Pencilla stepped in.
The room was dim, the curtains pulled. A nightlight shaped like a rabbit glowed in one corner, painting soft shadows across the bed. Atop the messy bed, Constance sat stiffly, her back to the door, her arms holding her blanket tight around herself like a rope.
Rhonda said nothing. She just walked over, slow and deliberate, and sat on the floor beside the bed.
Number Two lingered at the door, then came inside and sat cross-legged near the wall. She didn’t say a word. Just folded her hands and watched Constance with careful eyes. The same way one might watch a cornered animal—soft, nonthreatening, present.
They had learned early on that Constance did not always want pep talks from them.
Rhonda exhaled slowly and closed her eyes, trying to match the silence without making it heavier. If she were completely honest, she wasn’t exactly sure what would help here. Mr. Benedict always seemed to know—he had a way of cutting straight through to the heart of things. And Number Two, for all her prickliness, could organize the world into something manageable.
Rhonda didn’t have a plan. But she didn’t need one to sit with a child in pain.
Constance wasn’t asking to be held or rocked or sung to. But she was asking for something. Quietly. Stubbornly. And Rhonda hoped she was hearing it right.
She thought of Number Two—years ago now—on the lumpy old couch that creaked even when no one moved. Of long afternoons dealt out in playing cards and talking about nothing in particular. They had been younger then, and lonelier, and not especially good at saying what they needed. But somehow, over time, they’d learned how to listen.
It had been sisterhood in progress. Earned, not claimed.
Rhonda looked up at the back of Constance’s tense shoulders and frowned at the way her erratic, hasty breath shook her entire body. She didn’t want to get this wrong. Not with her.
Since she’d arrived, Constance had shifted the whole gravity of the house. Mr. Benedict smiled more. Talked faster. Looked tired and joyful in the same breath. Number Two had started making snacks that were almost edible and sitting down in the evenings, like she remembered she had a body. And Rhonda—well, Rhonda had started keeping blankets on the armchair and doing quiet head-counts when they left the house, just in case.
It wasn’t that Constance had accepted them. Not really. She still side-eyed Number Two like she was a puzzle with a missing piece, and Rhonda like she was a substitute teacher who stuck around too long. But she had no trouble settling beside Mr. Benedict on the couch, absorbing his words with a deep admiration—as if she’d chosen him as a parent, and that was the end of it.
Still, even if all Rhonda could give was her presence, she would stay anyway.
“I know it’s hard when he’s gone,” Rhonda said softly. “Especially when it feels like he’s the only one who really sees you.”
No response, but Constance shifted, and that was enough.
“I hate this,” came the tiny voice eventually, muffled in the blanket. “Everyone keeps saying he’s coming back like they know. Like I’m stupid for even worrying.”
Rhonda’s chest hurt. “He will.”
“But how do you know?”
Rhonda paused as she gently rose to sit on the edge of the bed behind her. “I don’t. Not for sure. But I trust him. And he didn’t want to leave you.”
“But he left.”
“I know. And it’s awful. I miss him too. But you’re not alone here. You never were.”
“But it’s not the same.”
“No,” Rhonda said. “It’s not. And that’s what makes it so hard.”
“...*sniff* you just want me to be a good little sister so you can feel nice about yourselves.”
“That’s not true. We're sisters even-”
“Then stop calling us sisters!” she snapped. “We’re not. You two are already some kind of weird codependent genius hive—why do you need me?”
Number Two shifted from her spot on the floor, leaning on the edge of the bed next to Rhonda. “Because we want you. That’s different.”
She let the silence settle for a beat before saying, “You don’t have to like us yet. You don’t even have to believe us. But you’re not alone, okay?”
Constance scowled. “Why do you always sound like a pamphlet?”
“It’s a gift,” Number Two said dryly.
Rhonda gave a quiet laugh—just enough to soften the edges. She glanced back at the small bundle of grief and genius on the bed.
“I’m not sure how to do that,” the small voice finally said.
Rhonda felt the crack of it in her chest. “Do what?”
“Be someone’s sister. Be—held. I don’t like it. Or I do like it, but it makes me feel weird. I feel like you'll drop me. It makes me want to ruin things and be alone.”
“You’ve been doing a pretty good job so far,” Number Two said finally.
“No, I haven’t.” Her voice wobbled. A pause. Then Constance mumbled, “I’m not a sister. I don’t want to be one. I don’t like sharing. I don’t like group hugs. I want to eat my own snacks and not have to do team-building activities.”
“Fair,” said Rhonda. ”You don’t have to be a sister all at once. You can be something else, for now. Something smaller.”
"...like what?"
"You can pick."
"I can be the house’s goblin?”
Number Two blinked. “An accurate descriptor.”
Rhonda laughed. “Then be our goblin. Our beloved, furious little goblin.”
Constance turned over just enough to peek at them. Her face was blotchy, eyes red. She looked small, despite the scowl still perched half-heartedly on her brow.
“I guess I'm sorry I yelled and called you a rule-brain, Number Two,” Constance mumbled.
“It’s not inaccurate,” Pencilla said. “But apology accepted.”
“I still don’t like your food.”
“That’s a moral failing, but I’ll survive.”
Rhonda laughed quietly. She brushed a curl from Constance’s forehead.
“Since we’re going to be living together, *sniff* I don’t want you two to hate me.”
“We couldn’t if we tried.”
The concept of sisters was still uncomfortable to her. But real love meant not asking for more than someone could give. If Rhonda and Pencilla truly cared—and they did, more than they knew how to say—then they had to let Constance come to them in her own time.
Constance was quiet for a long moment, twisting the blanket in her lap. Then, quietly, like it physically hurt her to admit it:
“I like him better than you, you know.”
“I know,” Rhonda said.
A pause.
“But I don’t want him instead of you.”
Rhonda blinked. Her throat tightened. “That’s good,” she whispered. “Because you’ve got us both.”
It wasn’t the same as “I love you”. But maybe it was even better, coming from Constance.
Rhonda reached out and held her hand open.
Constance hesitated. Scowled. Then launched herself forward, a flurry of limbs and stubborn grief, and buried her face in Rhonda’s shoulder like she was furious with herself for needing to.
Rhonda gathered her in. Rocked her gently. And then—carefully, like she was holding something precious—Number Two reached forward and settled a hand on Constance’s back. It was tentative, a little stiff, but steady.
They sat there like that for a long time, in the soft hush of not needing to explain everything. Just being. Together.
Later, after the tears had dried and the tension had softened, they all padded into the living room where Number Two had reheated dinner. The lights were low, the lamps casting soft pools of amber on the rug. Everything smelled faintly of cinnamon, soup, and the cleaner Number Two always used that claimed to smell like pine, but never quite did.
“Alright, goblin,” Rhonda said. “Let’s eat something.”
They ate quietly on the couch, legs tucked under them, knees knocking gently now and then. Number Two coaxed Constance into trying half a boiled purple potato and a strawberry dipped in peanut butter.
Mr. Benedict’s voice eventually floated down the hall, soft and careful. The front door creaked closed behind him. Milligan passed the window like a shadow—thumbs-up—and disappeared into the night. Safe, then.
They didn’t mention the yelling. Constance let Rhonda pull her hair back into a soft ponytail. She allowed Number Two to wipe the soup from her cheek and made no objections when presented with the sweetest cookie Rhonda had ever seen.
Constance took it wordlessly, climbed into Number Two’s lap, and stayed there.
They didn’t talk about forgiveness. They didn’t talk about the future. They just sat in the glow of the reading lamp while Mr. Benedict dozed in his armchair nearby, and Rhonda read aloud from a book she’d brought from Zambia about a lonely elephant who eventually found his herd again.
When Rhonda glanced over, she saw Constance asleep on Number Two’s chest, her mouth slack, her hair clinging to her forehead. Number Two looked frozen, as if she breathed too hard, she might wake her.
She didn’t.
Rhonda smiled to herself and kept reading.
Later, when the lamp clicked off and the hallway lights hummed low, they lingered. Rhonda stayed curled beside them, her knee brushing Constance’s foot. Number Two remained still beneath the warm weight of a child who had finally, finally rested. Outside, the wind whispered past the shutters. Inside, it was warm. Steady.
They were still learning each other, this little family stitched together by choice and circumstance. It wasn’t perfect—Rhonda didn’t expect it to be—but as she watched Number Two wrap a blanket over Constance as she shifted in her sleep, she felt something like home settle under her ribs.
Because this was how you held a storm, she thought. Not with force. Not with logic.
But with time. With gentleness. With sisters who stayed. And love, when it was finally ready to be accepted.
And for a little girl who had always been small in a world too big to care for her, that might be enough.