My Dad shifted awkwardly in his recliner, glancing at my Mom. She was just opening her mouth to say something when Dad repeated his question. "Son, what did you just say?"

"I've been reassigned."

"When did this happen?" His rich, low voice resonated through the room, making the small space seem even more crowded.

"Today."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Who else was reassigned?"

"No one. Just me."

Mom, who'd practically turned red in the face with impatience, couldn't contain herself any longer. "How??" The word was more of a demand than a question, asked in the same tone she used the few times she'd grounded me as a kid.

"I don't know. I'm just in a higher percentile!"

"Since when, Rowan? What other year have you gotten a station result, huh? I know as well as you do seventeen-year-old kids don't just suddenly move up the percentiles. How'd you do it?"

I considered telling her the truth: how I've fooled the test every year just to stick around, because I couldn't bring myself to leave Amber with her and my Dad!

That explanation was quickly reconsidered. "I didn't cheat, Mom. I didn't tamper with the results and I didn't use someone else's scans. I spent a lot of time this past year tutoring Amber, and I guess it helped me too."

That answer wasn't exactly convincing, but it seemed to satisfy my parents for the moment, since Mom didn't bother to continue the interrogation.

There was a silence, thick with tension as my Mom glared at me distrustfully. My Dad finally spoke up, looking back and forth between us. "Well, I guess this is our last night together as a family. What should we do?"

He looked at me expectantly.

I thought of all the times that, as a kid, I had wanted their full attention, their time, and their care. They were always too busy smoking or watching TV, or playing on the computer, or dreaming up any other excuse they could to avoid spending time with me or Amber. They were never there for us.

"Sorry, no time," I told him. "I need to go pack."

A wisp of guilt floated through me when my Dad's face fell. But that guilt quickly dissipated as I saw my Mom sigh, smiling, before she got up and left me sitting there with Dad. Anger shot through me at her inability to hide her relief, and after that I walked straight to my room.

I was given three suitcases that day before leaving school. A jovial man with salt-and-pepper hair -- Ralph, I remembered -- told me that I was allowed to pack those three bags, plus one bag of my choice to take to Alpha.

So there I was, rooting through my things, deciding what to bring and what to leave. It didn't take long for me to work through all my clothes. Everything I was bringing was folded and organized on my bed; everything I was leaving went back in the drawers. I knew my parents would probably sell the stuff the moment I left.

I didn't have much for personal items, other than clothes. Although I was sad to leave it behind, I didn't want to bring the laptop I'd cobbled together from various parts in the dumpster out back. I figured I'd get a better one at the station, maybe even one that I wouldn't have to assemble myself! I made sure to pack every picture of Amber I owned, but I decided to leave my books: as much as I treasured them, they'd surely all be in the station library.

Except one. I picked it up, staring at the book. Nothing special: The Art of Cooking.

I opened the front cover. There was a short paragraph, in Amber's writing.

To Row-

Thank you so much. You've taught me everything. Here's one thing I have left to teach you.

The day she'd given the book to me, I'd wrinkled my nose at her. All she did was laugh, and remind me that I really needed the help. Later, I realized that she’d spent all the coins she picked up off the street just to buy it for me.

Looking at her handwriting, I felt a lump in my throat. That had been last year, and I never did master cooking. I always thought that we'd have time to work on it together, but... Well, we didn't.

I looked at the book again, reading the last few words Amber had written.

Love you.

Am

I fought to keep the tears away. I missed my sister so much already, and I didn't know how to find her. I couldn't look up her name in a directory; those were classified, and even if I could have located her it's not like I could have afforded a flight. I touched the two letters she used to sign her name before closing the book and carefully packing it in between piles of clothes.

My three bags were soon full, along with my guitar case that counted as the fourth bag of my choice. I double-checked them all, not wanting to leave anything important.

Minutes later, I lay in my bed for the last time, on the last night that I would spend in my room, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. Tacky? Maybe, yeah. But I found them relaxing. Amber loved them, too: she was the one who made me put them up.

I knew I would miss my room, but as I thought of Amber, and how memories of her were in every corner of that house...

I knew it was time for me to leave.