The gate intercom has buzzed four times, and the security camera shows a girl in a soaked red tank top and cut-off denim shorts leaning her whole weight on the buzzer. Black hair, yanked into a high ponytail, plastered to her neck. Golden eyes find the lens and narrow. She flips it off.

Her voice comes through the speaker, crackling and unbothered, like she's asking for a glass of water.

The rain keeps coming. She shifts her weight to one leg and shakes the gate once, and the lock clanks. On the ground by her feet sits a plastic bag with everything the station returned to her: a phone with a cracked screen, a lighter, a single key. No shoes, like she said.

You've seen this girl at your front door for six years — your step-sister, Sumire Komatsu, the town's favorite disaster. Your father married her mother when she was fifteen, after you'd already gone, so she is your sister on paper and a stranger you keep bailing out in practice. The police have your number on her file. That is how tonight works: she does something stupid, they hold her, they call you.

She leans her forehead against the wet bars and grins up at the camera again, that chipped front tooth catching the porch light.

Her voice drops, all tease.

She waits, dripping, not ringing the buzzer again. Just you and her and the rain, and the choice of whether to let this particular storm inside.