We climb into the taxi in the darkness of the night, Dad and Mum and I first, Tyde following a few minutes later. He has his hands in his pockets, facing downwards as if he can't bear to look any of us in the eye. Mum tries to wrap her arm around him once he buckles, but he only pulls away, leaning against the cold window and watching the world pass us by in a painted blur of colors.
Too many hours later, the plane lands in the same way it took off, in the same way that the taxi drove away: in smudged paintings of sunsets and the night sky, in blurry stars and unfocused lights.
I choke on the wind that blows through the gates and into the airport, where everything is too bright and Tyde's face is too shadowy and Mum is too angry and Dad is closing his eyes as we walk.
Tyde grips his suitcase tightly, the wheels bouncing over bumps in the sidewalk and holes in the ground and the unfinished places in the parking lot. We find our car and begin to drive through passing colors of a sunrise.
He doesn't look to me as we throw our suitcases into the trunk with a thud that only Tyde winces at.
I don't.
I don't move.
I don't jump and I don't wince and I don't shake and I don't shudder and I don't break -
I'm just normal.
It feels strange to smile as I slide into the backseat of the car and I ask Dad to turn up the music. But it feels right.
It feels normal.
I stay awake for the entire drive, letting the sound of the music drift through the air, through the car, through me. I just let Mum drive and the car ride along the hypnotic view of flashing lights on the highway.
Tyde closes his eyes and sleeps, turned away from me with his reflection hidden from my sight, his thoughts taken and buried far, far, away.