Everyone in the family said my brother wouldn't live to see tomorrow, but my father, Vincent Pittman, locked me in the cellar before that could happen. My brother, Dylan Pittman, had been born with a heart condition. As his 18th birthday approached, he began showing the first signs of shifting. Dr. Marcus Lowell said his heart probably wouldn't survive it. My mother, Diana Pittman, set a countdown clock in the living room for his birthday. "We'll stay with him through his last birthday," she said. The fresh meat sent by the pack, the newest pair of snow boots in the store, even Mom and Dad's bedtime stories—everything was his and his alone. I felt terrible for him. I was also jealous of all the love he received. On the eve of his 18th birthday, after he'd finally made it that far, I came down with a high fever. Mom and Dad were afraid I'd cause trouble, so they locked me in the cellar anyway. I pounded on the door and cried, "Mom, let me out! I'm burning up, and my bones hurt. I think I might be shifting!" Mom gritted her teeth. "Enough, Gemma! Dylan is going to die tomorrow. Can't you endure it just a little longer?" "But I really do feel awful..." Their footsteps faded away. At last, I let go of the handle and stopped begging them to open the door.