Sister.

Angela knew that word.

Sometimes people called the nurses Sister.

Sometimes the strange black and white people with the hats were called Sister.

Sister.

Sister. Brother. Mother.

Shakespeare's Sister. Sister Act.

Little Sister.

Those last two words lingered in Angela's mind. Little meant small. Little meant fewer. But Little Sister meant something else.

Little Sister. Baby Sister.

My Little Sister.

Angela felt the hug wrap around her. It was a new, strange sensation, different from the hug the last time her Visitor had been there. It felt tight. It felt sad. It felt damp on her shoulder. She raised her arms, rested her hands awkwardly on the Visitor's back.

"There, there," she said quietly, something she'd seen people say when they let her sit in the room with the chairs and the television.

"Don't cry Big Sister."