Chapter Text
1980
The moving truck always arrived before breakfast. Dana had noticed that somewhere around the eighth move. There was a rhythm to it now, as familiar as the tide. Her father would already be awake, coffee in hand, talking quietly with the movers while the rest of the neighbourhood still slept. The diesel engine would rumble impatiently at the curb, its low growl vibrating through the floorboards before the first shaft of sunlight reached her bedroom window. Then came the metallic clatter of the loading ramp, the thud of boots on wooden steps, the scrape of furniture wrapped in thick grey blankets, and the murmur of strangers discussing where pieces of your life belonged.
It was never loud enough to wake you. Not anymore. Your body simply learned the sound of leaving. By the time the sun climbed above the rooftops, men she'd never met were already carrying fragments of her life through the front door as though they had always belonged to someone else: boxes marked Kitchen, Books, Winter Clothes, Melissa, Dana. Neat black lettering. Carefully catalogued. Reduced to labels. The boxes changed. The houses changed. The states changed. But the feeling never did.
Standing in the driveway with her hands buried deep inside the pockets of an oversized navy sweatshirt, Dana watched another cardboard box disappear into another unfamiliar house. The September air carried the faint tang of salt from Vineyard Sound, mingling with the sharp scent of freshly cut grass and the lingering exhaust from the idling truck. Somewhere nearby, gulls cried overhead, their calls swallowed by the steady rhythm of taped boxes being stacked against hardwood floors.
Everything smelled unfamiliar. Fresh paint lingered beneath the sharper scent of newly varnished floorboards, mingling with damp cedar from the weathered fence that bordered the garden. Every breeze rolling carried the crisp tang of saltwater and sea grass, accompanied by the distant, mournful cries of gulls circling somewhere beyond the rooftops. Even the earth smelled different here, richer somehow, still holding the memory of last night's rain.
None of it smelled like home. Home, to Dana, wasn't one place anymore. It was the scent of coffee drifting through whichever kitchen her mother happened to be standing in. It was her father's aftershave lingering in the hallway before he left for work. It was Melissa's perfume invading every bedroom they ever shared. It was Charlie's muddy trainers abandoned somewhere they weren't supposed to be. It was Bill complaining about carrying the heavy furniture while somehow carrying most of it anyway.
Those things travelled. Everything else stayed behind. Dana shifted her weight on the cracked concrete driveway, the rough edge of the pavement catching against the worn sole of her trainers. The cool September air brushed pink across her cheeks while the oversized sleeves of her navy sweatshirt swallowed her hands almost completely, offering little protection against the coastal breeze.
Around her, life unfolded with the practised efficiency of a family who had rehearsed this performance more times than anyone should have to. Her mother stood just inside the front hallway, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe as she directed movers with effortless warmth.
"The kitchen boxes can go through there, thank you... Yes, that's perfect. Oh, would you mind putting that one on the counter? Wonderful." Maggie somehow managed to sound grateful even while issuing instructions. Within half an hour she already knew three of the movers' names, had offered them coffee twice, and was apologising because the biscuits hadn't yet been unpacked.
Dana smiled to herself. Some things never changed. A few feet away, Captain William Scully stood beside the truck with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm, carefully checking each numbered box against the inventory list in neat, precise handwriting. Every completed item received a small, deliberate tick before his pencil moved methodically to the next. Nothing escaped his attention. Not the missing bedside lamp. Not the dent someone had left in the corner of a wardrobe. Not the fact that Box Thirty-Two had somehow appeared before Box Twenty-Seven. Military precision wasn't something William Scully switched on when he put on the uniform. It simply lived in him. Every movement around him felt measured, organised, and expected.
Then Bill crashed through the front door carrying one end of an impossibly oversized bookcase. "Dad!" he shouted over his shoulder, his voice echoing through the house. "This doesn’t fit!"
William didn't even glance up from his clipboard. "Take it to the living room."
At nineteen, Bill Jr. had inherited almost everything from their father: his broad shoulders, his dark hair, his sense of responsibility and his instinctive need to take charge. He'd also inherited just enough of Maggie's humour to stop himself becoming completely insufferable. Mostly.
"Charlie!" Bill called into the house. "I need another pair of hands!"
A moment later Charlie appeared at the top of the staircase carrying a box nearly as large as himself. At twelve years old, he hadn't quite grown into his gangly arms and legs yet, giving him the appearance of a colt still figuring out where all his limbs belonged.
Watching them, Dana felt something inside her loosen almost imperceptibly. Every move looked different. Different streets, different houses, different schools. But this... This was always the same. Bill pretending to complain while quietly doing the hardest jobs. Charlie trying desperately to prove he was older than everyone insisted he was. Their mother somehow keeping six people organised without ever raising her voice. Their father making order out of cardboard boxes and inventory sheets. Melissa talking to strangers as though she'd known them for years. And Dana standing back just long enough to convince herself none of it mattered before inevitably being drawn into the middle of it anyway.
The addresses changed. The rhythm never did. For all the uncertainty that came with moving, there was comfort in that familiar choreography: a family of six weaving around one another with the unconscious precision of people who had repeated the same dance across countless driveways, in countless towns, for as long as any of them could remember. As though uprooting an entire life every couple of months or years was the most ordinary thing in the world. Perhaps, for the Scullys, it was.
A fresh start. People always called it that. Teachers, neighbours, friendly cashiers who smiled when they heard the family was new in town. "You'll love it here." "A chance to begin again." "New school, new friends." Dana had smiled politely every time. She knew they meant well. But she'd never liked the phrase. Fresh starts implied possibility. Hope. The freedom to choose.
Starting over was different. Starting over happened to you. It arrived in official envelopes stamped with Navy letterheads. It was whispered between her parents over dinner weeks before anyone else knew. It was bedrooms slowly emptied into cardboard boxes, addresses crossed out in old address books, tearful goodbyes to classmates whose faces blurred together after enough years. Starting over wasn't exciting. It was inevitable. Like the changing of the seasons. Or the tide rolling in. You could stand in its path if you wanted. It would carry you away all the same.
By sixteen, Dana had stopped asking whether this move would be the last. She had stopped unpacking certain things completely, leaving favourite books in their boxes because experience had taught her they'd only need packing again before long. She no longer memorised neighbours' names or learned shortcuts through town. She never bothered choosing which posters went on the bedroom wall anymore. Thumbtacks left tiny holes that someone else would have to fill after the next transfer orders arrived. There was a peculiar kind of exhaustion that came from never putting down roots. Not dramatic enough to earn sympathy. Not obvious enough for anyone to notice. Just a quiet acceptance that every hello already contained the promise of goodbye. So, she stood in the driveway, watching strangers carry her life into a house that still smelled of someone else's memories, and did what she'd learned to do years ago. She went with the flow. Because resisting never stopped the current. It only made it hurt more.
Behind her, the familiar slam of the station wagon's passenger door shattered the quiet rhythm of the morning, followed by the unmistakable sound of quick footsteps crunching across the gravel driveway.
"Oh, come on," Melissa called, her voice warm with exasperated amusement before Dana had even bothered to turn around. "You haven't even looked at it properly." Dana let out a long, resigned sigh, keeping her eyes fixed on the movers as they disappeared through the front door carrying another stack of carefully labelled boxes.
"I've looked," she replied evenly.
Melissa came to stand beside her, folding her arms against the cool September breeze as if settling in for an argument she'd had a hundred times before.
"No," she corrected with a playful shake of her head, "you glanced. There's a difference."
Dana finally turned, lifting one eyebrow in a look Melissa knew almost as well as her own reflection. "I've seen enough."
Melissa laughed softly, the sound light enough to cut through the constant drone of the moving truck. She had changed while everyone else had been unpacking, trading the wrinkled travelling clothes she'd worn for the drive for a pair of well-fitting jeans and a bright yellow sweater that somehow managed to make the overcast morning seem less determined to rain. The breeze toyed with strands of her auburn hair, lifting them away from her face as she tucked them absent-mindedly behind one ear before turning her attention to the neat little white house.
It wasn't large. Its paint had begun to peel in places, and the weathered picket fence leaned ever so slightly towards the road, but window boxes overflowed with late-summer flowers, and a broad maple tree stretched welcoming branches across the front garden. Beyond the neighbouring rooftops, Dana could just make out the faint shimmer of the Atlantic.
Melissa's smile spread effortlessly across her face. "I like it," she admitted quietly, as though she were sharing a secret rather than announcing an opinion.
Dana couldn't suppress the tiny smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. "You always like it," she observed.
"I do," Melissa agreed without the slightest embarrassment.
Dana shook her head, letting her gaze drift back towards the house. "That's because you always think this one is going to be different."
Melissa's smile only deepened. "It is."
Dana let out a quiet laugh through her nose. "You say that every single time we move."
"I know."
"And every single time, you spend the first week telling me we've finally found the perfect place."
"I know." Melissa rocked on her feet.
"And then six months later we're packing everything back into boxes."
Melissa glanced sideways, her green eyes sparkling with familiar mischief. "And one of these days," she said confidently, nudging Dana's shoulder with her own, "I'm actually going to be right."
Dana met her sister's grin and found herself shaking her head, not because she disagreed but because Melissa somehow possessed an endless supply of optimism that defied every relocation, every goodbye, and every set of transfer orders that arrived in crisp white Navy envelopes.
"I honestly don't know where you get it," Dana admitted.
"What?" Melissa half smirked.
"The hope."
Melissa followed Dana's gaze towards the street, where children pedalled bicycles up and down the pavement as though they'd lived there forever. A golden retriever bounded after them, barking happily while a woman watering hanging baskets paused to wave at the newcomers. Melissa returned the wave without hesitation. Dana pretended not to notice.
"I don't think it's hope," Melissa said after a thoughtful pause.
"No?"
"No." She smiled to herself. "I think it's practice."
Dana frowned.
Melissa shrugged lightly. "We've been moving our whole lives. You learned how to protect yourself."
"And you?"
"I learned that if I only get a little while somewhere..." She drew in a slow breath, filling her lungs with the crisp salt air rolling in from the coast. "I'd rather spend it falling in love with the place than counting down until I leave."
Dana studied her sister's profile, watching the breeze catch the loose strands of auburn hair dancing around her face. Melissa looked completely at ease, as though standing in an unfamiliar driveway in an unfamiliar town wasn't daunting in the slightest. It amazed her. It always had. They had lived exactly the same childhood. The same houses, the same schools, the same constant cycle of arrivals and departures. Yet somehow, they had become entirely different people. Melissa collected memories. Dana avoided making them.
"You know you're impossible," Dana said at last, unable to stop the affection creeping into her voice.
Melissa gasped theatrically. "I prefer 'relentlessly optimistic.'"
"I prefer 'delusional.'"
Melissa laughed so hard she leaned against Dana's shoulder for balance, and Dana instinctively steadied her without thinking, slipping an arm around her waist just long enough to keep her upright.
"There she is," Melissa said once she'd caught her breath.
Dana frowned. "Who?"
"My sister."
"I've been standing here the whole time."
Melissa smiled, her expression softening into something infinitely more sincere. "No," she said quietly. "You've been surviving." She reached over and threaded her fingers briefly through Dana's, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go again. "I'm just waiting for you to start living again."
Dana looked down at the place where their hands had touched. Melissa had always done that. Reached for her. Grounded her. Whether they were crossing busy roads as children, navigating another unfamiliar school corridor, or standing in yet another driveway wondering how long this place would last, Melissa had an uncanny ability to find Dana without needing to look. Dana liked to pretend she didn't need it. The truth was, she couldn't remember a single move she would have survived without her sister beside her. Not once.
Dana couldn't help herself. A quiet laugh escaped before she had the chance to stop it, little more than a soft breath of amusement that disappeared into the cool sea air almost as quickly as it had arrived. It wasn't loud enough to carry beyond the driveway, and under the steady rumble of the moving truck she doubted anyone else would even have heard it.
Anyone except Melissa. Melissa's entire face brightened as though someone had switched on a light behind her eyes. She turned towards her younger sister with unmistakable triumph dancing across her features. Dana rolled her eyes, although the gesture lacked any real irritation. She shifted her weight against the cool wooden post of the porch and folded her arms across her chest, trying, and failing, to hide the reluctant smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"You make me sound endangered," she muttered.
Melissa laughed softly before stepping closer and slipping her arm naturally through Dana's, as if she'd been doing it her entire life, which, in truth, she had. The familiar gesture required no thought from either of them. It was simply instinct, born from years of navigating crowded airports, unfamiliar streets and new schools together. Dana never pulled away.
"You are," Melissa replied gently.
Dana snorted. "I'm standing right here."
"No," Melissa said, shaking her head as a strand of auburn hair blew across her face. She tucked it behind her ear without releasing Dana's arm. "Physically, yes."
Dana looked sideways at her.
"But every time we move..." Melissa continued, her voice growing quieter, "...you disappear."
"I don't disappear," Dana answered automatically.
Melissa's expression remained patient. "You hide."
Dana looked away towards the unfamiliar street stretching beyond the white picket fence. Everything about it felt deceptively peaceful. Children raced one another on battered bicycles, their laughter floating through the crisp September air. Somewhere farther down the block, a dog barked excitedly as it chased a tennis ball across someone's front lawn. Wind stirred the branches of the towering maple trees lining the road, scattering the first hints of autumn across the pavement in flashes of amber and crimson. It looked like every neighbourhood she'd ever lived in. And none of them.
"I adapt," Dana replied after a moment, watching one of the boys skid dramatically around a corner before his friends erupted into laughter.
Melissa gave her arm a gentle squeeze. "You isolate."
Dana let the accusation hang between them without answering. Across the street, a woman watering overflowing baskets of purple petunias looked up from her garden hose. Catching sight of the newcomers, she smiled warmly and raised a hand in greeting. Melissa smiled back immediately, lifting her free hand in an enthusiastic wave that came as naturally to her as breathing. Dana saw the woman too. She simply chose to look away. Melissa noticed.
"You didn't wave back," Melissa observed quietly, not with criticism but with unmistakable sadness.
Dana shrugged one shoulder beneath her oversized sweatshirt. "We're leaving."
Melissa frowned. Her brow creased in confusion as she looked first at Dana and then at the half-unpacked moving truck dominating the driveway. "Dana," she said with a small laugh, "we literally just got here."
Dana's gaze never left the street. "In a few months, in a year..." she replied. The words settled heavily between them.
Melissa opened her mouth to answer. "Dana..."
"We always leave." Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper, so soft that Melissa nearly missed it beneath the distant cry of gulls circling overhead. Dana swallowed hard before continuing, speaking more to herself than to anyone else. "We unpack the boxes." She watched one of the movers carry another armful through the front door. "We learn which floorboards creak." Captain Scully's voice drifted from inside the house as he directed someone towards the dining room. "We find the quickest way to school." A breeze rolled in from the ocean, cool against her cheeks, carrying the faint scent of saltwater and sea grass. "We memorise the roads." Her eyes lingered on the children weaving effortlessly between gardens and driveways as though they belonged to this place in a way she never would. "We make friends." The last words caught in her throat. "And then Dad gets transferred."
Silence followed. Not awkward, just heavy. Melissa didn't answer straight away because there wasn't a clever joke capable of fixing that truth. She'd packed the same boxes. Cried over the same goodbyes. Watched the same moving trucks disappear down countless driveways. She knew exactly what Dana meant because she'd lived every mile of the journey beside her. The difference wasn't that Melissa hurt less. It was that she'd made peace with the hurt in a way Dana never quite had.
Melissa rested her head gently against Dana's shoulder, saying nothing for several long moments as they stood together in the cool morning air, watching strangers carry the pieces of their lives into yet another house that would someday belong to someone else. Neither sister let go of the other's arm. They never did. For all the ways they saw the world differently, there had never been a move, never a goodbye, never a first day at a new school, never a lonely lunch break or tearful farewell, that they hadn't faced side by side.
Whatever came next, they would face this one together, too.