“Are we practicing tonight?” Ale asks as we wind home over the backroads.

“Not tonight.” Since her mom’s right there, I don’t mention Dad’s bedtime warning from yesterday.

“Want to do some collecting, then?” We fill orders about twice a week, but we can restock inventory any time the weather’s good.

“I wish,” I tell her with a groan. “It’s supper at Nonny’s tonight—have to do homework first. Tomorrow?”

Ale’s abuela lives with her, teaches cumbia dancing on Thursday nights at the community center, and is convinced the sun rises and sets on Ale and her siblings. Nonny can fill a whole mealtime with lists of things Dad and me could be doing better.

Unfortunately, the weekly dinner with Nonny and Pop-Pop—6 p.m., sharp—isn’t up for debate. After Ale and her mom drop me off, I get straight on my homework and am done when Dad’s truck pulls in.

At exactly 5:58, we drive between the two magnolia trees that mark the entrance to Valley View Mobile Estates. We pull into Nonny and Pop-Pop’s driveway at 5:59 and are on our way inside at 6:01, past the perfect flower beds that line their little driveway. Their ramp is a bit shorter and steeper than the one Dad built at our place, so Dad gives me a boost from behind since we’re running late.

“Wasn’t sure you were coming” is how Nonny greets us. She looks at the clock.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Dad’s voice is the special sort of cheerful he uses on problem customers. “Smells good.”

Nonny’s eyes pin me like a butterfly as I pop over the threshold. “Emelyn, be careful!”

It wasn’t even a big wheelie.

Dad’s not the only one who’s a bit different these days. Nonny wasn’t ever what you’d call soft and fuzzy, but she wasn’t quite this intense. Dad says it’s because parents aren’t supposed to have to bury their kids. He never says much about why he changed so much, too, but I guess everyone knows you’re not supposed to bury your wife when you’re just thirty-two. Especially not to some random, freak accident that nobody ever could’ve seen coming. Or planned for.

Sometimes I think it’s too bad Dad and Nonny don’t have wheels, too. Moving fast is the best way I know to keep ahead of feelings you’d rather shake off.

By the time dinner hits the table, I feel like a witness— or a suspect—in a crime show.

“You didn’t wear that to school, did you?” Nonny looks at my raggedy jeans, purple Converse, and hearts-and-skulls hoodie like I scrounged them from the trash dump.

My mouth is full of mashed potatoes, so I take a long drink while I decide how to answer.

Dad breaks in. “How’s the new hot water heater working?”

“Fine, if you like three-minute showers.”

Dad spent an entire day picking it up and installing it for them. Also, there’s no way the hot water lasts only three minutes. But that’s gratitude, Nonny style.

Across the table, Pop-Pop gives me the blissful smile of someone whose hearing aids are totally still in the dresser drawer. “How’s the business going, Biscuit?” he asks, then hands me the plate of actual biscuits with a wink.