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Forty minutes. Fifty minutes. An hour. “Something’s wrong,” I whisper.
“Captain Metias Iparis is outside the gate,” a voice replies. “He’s here for his sister.” “Good. Send him in.” She releases the button and points a finger at me. “I hope that brother of yours starts doing a better job of minding you, because if you end up in my office one more time this quarter—”
It's always the older brothers
Every other memory from my childhood—looking out into the auditorium as I receive an award, or having soup made for me when I’m sick, or being scolded, or tucked into bed—those are with Metias.
